


Dittany and other healing remedies for the heart

by Liligalaxy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Falling In Love, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nightmares, Post-War, Romance, Slow Burn, a lot of crying, but the good liberating kind, insomniac wizards doing dumb stuff at night, recovering, there's also a little Dean/Seamus if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28966854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liligalaxy/pseuds/Liligalaxy
Summary: After the final battle Harry, Hermione and Ron go back to Hogwarts to finish their eighth year, but some things are never going to be the same.Having lost so much, Harry just wants to go back to the only place he can call home and heal, but sometimes when you lose everything you thought safe and certain, the only way to move forward is to make amends with the past.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 19
Kudos: 41





	1. On coming back and starting anew

**Author's Note:**

> Coming back to Harry Potter after all these years feels kind of like a full circle and now that we're once again in quarantine what better time to start writing again!  
> Please pardon my English, it's not my first language and I've got no one to beta for me :)
> 
> Also, this author doesn't support J.K. Rowling in any of her statements, but the characters and places are unfortunately hers so...

It didn’t feel real. None of it, not the warm cushioned seats of the train, not the overstuffed luggage pushed over their heads, not the bright and cheerful laughter that filtered from outside their carriage.

Hermione had transfigured the windowpane as soon as they had gotten on: they could look outside, but nobody would know they were there. It had been difficult enough getting to the platform without getting mobbed, he really didn’t know if he could handle another crowd of people chanting his name like a prayer.

They had still a couple more minutes before their departure and Harry was counting the seconds, lightly tapping his leg on the floor. He knew that in a moment or two Hermione would reprimand him, that nervous tick had made her stalk out of the room multiple times in the past weeks, but he couldn’t help it. It had been a long strange summer, filled with him getting hauled from one place to another, camera flashing in his face at his every step. 

He had attended more funerals than he could remember, faces upon faces disfigured by tears and wounds and bites, praying for the memory of loved ones to never be forgotten.

He certainly wouldn't.

“I’ve died already, can I get a moment to breathe!” he had finally snapped one morning.

It had been after a particularly nasty interview for an important newspaper, as the wizards from the Ministry had said, but he had no idea why he had said yes. The journalist had asked about his years spent with the Dursleys and yes, it had been difficult but no, he didn’t want to talk about it and after the tenth question about his year hunting Horcruxes and "how hard and traumatizing it must have been, but could you give us some words about your relationship status?" he had stormed out of the room, not even bothering to apologize afterwords. 

“Bloody hell!” Ron exclaimed, snapping him from his reverie elbowing him lightly in the arm “He really did came back”

Harry didn’t need him to say the name to know who he was talking about, but curiosity had the best of him and he leaned towards the window.

Both his eyebrows jumped up. He looked…

“Blimey” Ron whispered.

He looked thin. Not the kind of thin Malfoy had always been all those years at Hogwarts, his face pale and pointy in the right places to make him look like a painting. If someone had to be the heir of a powerful Pureblood family, Harry had always thought they would look like Malfoy: forever graceful even when spatting venom in Harry's face.

Now his skin looked ashen, his hair, neatly tucked behind his ears, were longer than Harry had ever seen him wear and when he squinted he noted that his grey eyes, always full of pride and scorn when they were kids, were know rimmed with red, irritated skin.

“It looks like he’s been crying a lot” said Hermione. “I read his dad was sentenced to five months in Azkaban”

Harry vaguely remembered the article from the Prophet, the moving photograph of Lucius Malfoy getting dragged from his house by four Aurors. His face hadn’t looked remorseful at all, but it had to be expected from him. He already knew he wasn't getting a lifelong sentence. Harry had scowered the papers, but there had been no mention of Draco, surely another one of Lucius doings.

“Only five?” Ron jerked from the window with a sour look on his face.

“Yeah, well, I’d imagine the name Malfoy still means something even after the war.” Hermione replied, tucking her hair behind her ear. She had let them grow again and now she looked younger, almost the same she did at the beginning of last year “That or all the gold they have in their vaults”

A heavy silence fell onto their compartment. It happened a lot lately, every time someone mentioned the war: the death of a loved one, something that had been stolen, something lost. A first they had tried to fill the space with words, talking about safe topics like Quidditch or their plans for the evening, but they had soon discovered it was better to say nothing at all.

Silence was healing, but most of all, it was easy.

And then the train started to move, the landscape morphing from the grays and browns of the city to the greens and whites of the wintry countryside. Harry had never particularly payed attention to what happened outside the window, but this time everything looked so much crisper in his mind: the trees and the fields, soon giving away to the ups and downs of the hills, dotted with flocks of sheeps and cows.

This was his last time traveling to Hogwarts and he wanted to commit it to memory.

Ron took out from his pants’ pocket a deck of exploding snap (with a “That’s incredibly dangerous! What if it exploded in your pocket?” from Hermione) and Harry joined him in a game. Hermione chose to settle herself with a book.

“Really ‘Mione? Hogwarts: A History?” Ron groaned, noticing the familiar title “You’ve read it enough times to know it by heart”

The witch cocked a knowing eyebrow, she had been pleading someone to read the book since her first year, and showed the other two the chapter she was reading: “Defense mechanisms of the castle: Hogwarts throughout the wars”.

“Headmistress McGonagall sent me a letter last week asking for some consultation. The castle is still under reconstruction and half of the statues are missing; we need to understand why. And besides” she lightly tapped Ron’s head with the book in an affectionate gesture that made Harry smile “A reread is never a waste of time”

Time seems to slow down just for them, between meaningless chatter and rounds of snap, with one particular card exploding right near Ron’s eyebrow, almost frying it. They ate candy from the chart and traded chocolate frog cards, like they were eleven all over again.

Just when the sun had dipped below the mountains and the train lights alighted, Harry heard someone yelling from outside his carriage. Ron and Hermione had fallen asleep, their hands interlocked together and, not wanting to wake them, Harry went outside alone.

It happened often, them falling asleep together in odd places, like their last year had drained them from all their energy and they needed time to recharge. Harry shared the same sentiment, but now more than ever he dreaded the sleep. Nothing good came from his dreams lately.

He poked his nose outside and furrowed his brows, not really sure of what he was looking at: at the end of the carriage stood four seventh year student, some Hufflepuffs some Ravenclaws, crowding over a familiar figure. Harry recognized words like “Father” and “Death Eater” and “Fault”, the tone of their voices rising in volume and anger, and before he knew it his legs sprinted into action.

“What’s going on?” he asked quietly, but his voice boomed from wall to wall, as if carrying the weight of his presence.

One of the seventh year turned around, eyes wide, moving to let him through and there he was: Draco Malfoy, still dressed in his white shirt and dark pants, his face on the verge of turning a particularly nasty shade of green.

_Hermione was right_ Harry thought _he has been crying._

As soon as Malfoy’s eyes locked onto his, tough, Harry knew something wasn’t right. Nothing had been after that night, but he had always felt like the next time he would be meeting Malfoy, things were going to be like before: snarky comments, petty rivalries, meaningful but comforting bickering that lead nowhere. Looking into his eyes now, though, make Harry tighten his hands in his pockets: they were red and puffy, yes, but behind them laid emotions so raw he couldn’t believe Malfoy was letting everybody see them.

“What’s going on?” he asked again, his voice a little louder.

“He was sneaking into our carriage” grumbled a tall Hufflepuff. 

She had, Harry knew, venom on her tongue. Like many others, she was still hurting with no one to blame.

Harry turned back to Malfoy, but the Slytherin adverted his eyes. He gripped the hem of his robe’s sleeves and cocked his head, directing an icy glare to the Hufflepuff.

“Our bathroom is broken” he said, his voice quiet.

Harry flinched. He had never heard Malfoy speak like that, if not that night, right before… well, right before he died.

He looked back to the seventh year and sighed.

“Why don’t we all go back to our seats?" he said, trying to remain calm. "We’re nearly there” 

All he wanted to do was to go back to his friends and get some rest, but something in Malfoys piercing eyes had him glued on the spot. He could feel them trailing the edges of his nape and had to repress as shiver. 

_I'm not twelve anymore_ he reminded himself.

The Hufflepuff made a strangled noise, like she wanted to argue, but at last she ducked her head and went back inside her compartment alongside the other students, leaving Harry and Draco Malfoy alone in the train's halway.

A long, uncomfortable silence stretched between them, but Harry had long since grown accustomed to it.

“I supposed I ought to thank you” Malfoy finally said.

His voice was light, but Harry felt a pang to his stomach. Those had been the exact words he had said that day, after his father’s trial.

When asked about Lucius Malfoy, Harry had told the judges everything he had seen: the man was a Death Eater, he had been in the past war and he had crawled back to the Dark Lord as soon as he could. And after him another man, and another, and another. A long list of names and faces that had been burned into Harry's mind: they were all there, that day, fighting alongside Voldemort, chanting his name. There was no doubt in his heart: they all belonged to Azkaban.

But when Draco Malfoy had stepped on the plate, his face alight with fear, the only words he could utter had been:

“He’s not guilty”

What he had wanted to say was _I’d be dead if it weren’t for you, you and your mother,_ or maybe _I can't forgive you, but you don't deserve this_ but someone else had had to tell that story for him. Only two days later he had discovered Draco’s charges had been dropped in favor of an indefinite house arrest.

And now he was here.

“There’s no need to…” Harry tried, but as soon as he spoke, Malfoy gave him a curt nod and fled, leaving him with his mouth hanging open and his hadns still in tighten into fists at his sides.

When he returned back to his seat he found Ron groggily awake, with Hermione still asleep on his shoulder.

“Where were you?” he asked.

“Loo” Harry simply replied.

He reclined back into his seat and closed his eyes.

This was going to be a long year.

.

.

.

Hogwarts was… well, the castle was still there. _Small mercies_ Harry thought as he watched the stone walls getting bigger and bigger behind the trees. The Gryffindor tower had been completely restored, but that couldn’t be said for the Middle one nor the Astronomy Wing which stretched open like a maimed arm. The walls were now almost bare of gargoyles and deep fissures ran along the windows near the main entrance.

His home, the only one he had ever dared to call as such, was wounded, but when the doors opened, a sudden rush of joy took Harry by surprise: less than half of the original paintings hanged from the walls and almost all of the armors were missing, but it was still Hogwarts.

When he had first seen the damage done by the battle, something in him had broken. He was never going to be able to come back to the only place in which he’d been happy, where he had laughed and cried and grown. But now, now he was there again.

He felt a pair of hands squeezing his and he found his friends staring back at him with the same wonder and joy in their eyes.

They navigated the corridors to the Great Hall where even a more spectacular surprise awaited them: hundred if not thousands lit candles floated right above their heads and further up shone a cloudless night sky sprinkled with stars like tiny twinkling freckles. The moon, a slit in the darkness, smiled down at the returning students like an awaiting mother. The drapes with their house colors glowed bright and mighty, each of their respected animals dancing and pirouetting between the fibers of the cloth.

It felt like his very first day, back when everything magical had been a novelty for him and life had been simpler.

The headmistress urged the eighth year student forward and made them sit on a new table just for them, right below the steps that led to the professors' one. They were few, familiar faces standing in front of each other for the first time since the battle had been won, and while mostly everyone had their noses up in the air, a loose smile adorning their features, Harry notices some gazes were glued to the table.

Right next to Malfoy was Goyle, the pair deep in a hushed conversation; then came Theodore Nott, who was intently examining his nails while Blaise Zabini murmured something in the ear of an ever-growing irritated Pansy Parkinson. Their robes, usually shiny and new, hung loose and dull around their bodies, and while Draco looked the worse out of all of them, they had all lost something in their temper. 

They were the only Slytherin returning and Harry didn't know how many of them were there by choice. Judging by their faces, not a lot of them.

.

.

.

As soon as the feast ended, tables bustling with the new first years, headmistress McGonagall motioned for the eighth year to follow her.

“We unfortunately had no other space for an additional dormitory, with the reparations still underway” she said, he voice loud and clear in the night’s air. They had exited the castle and were now following the path to the Owlery. “But I’m sure you’ll find our alternative quite thrilling”

She flicked her wand ahead and there, just before the path took an upturn, stood a little cottage. It was rather small, with smooth walls made of wood and stone and a triangular roof. The chimney was happily puffing out grey clouds of smoke, a sign that the house was waiting for them to get in.

“You’ll find “ she continued “That the house is divided just like your previous dormitories. You may choose to have a single or double room, but once you’ve made your decision you’ll see the walls won’t change a second time so think carefully before making your decision. There’s also a common room for your studies and free periods but meals will still be served in the Great Hall”

That said she turned around and went back to the castle, but Harry could swear there was a small, proud smile on her lips.

He searched for his friends and found them as bewildered as he was. He had thought they would join the other Gryffindors in their tower, he had been dreaming about that moment all summer. Late at night, alone in his bed, he had wondered if the common room would still be the same, if their beds were still there. A cottage just for them… he didn’t know if he liked the idea or not, but he was tired, his eyes already drooping down, so he followed the others inside without a word.

“I love magic” he heard himself whisper.

Of course the insides were bigger. The entrance gave away to a spacious common room with a wonderfully warm fireplace and plenty of chairs and couches in every house color. A little spiral staircase led to the first floor where the bedroom were situated. To choose a room, one had to simply put his hand on the door and recite his name and how many beds he wanted and there it was; when Harry did it, he entered a cream colored room, with a nice window, an empty table and a neatly made bed. The sheets were blue, with tiny fishes swimming idly from one side of the pillows to the other.

His luggage was already there, alongside his coat and a new pair of shiny shoes. He had commissioned them in Diagon Alley a week prior and had asked if they could deliver them directly to Hogwarts. That trip to the magical district had been a complete disaster, with people crowding outside every store he went rendering shopping nearly impossible.

It’s not that he blamed them, put in their shoes he would’ve probably behaved the same, but somewhere deep in his mind a voice was screaming to just _shut up!_ Their thanks and prayers should have been directed to Neville, to Luna, to Ginny. They called him The Chosen One, The Boy Who Lived Twice, but the more they said his name, the more he went into hiding.

He sat on his bed and took a deep breath, letting his eyes roam around the room: it was mostly empty, no posters on the walls, no quills nor parchments on his new wooden table.

_That will change soon_ he thought with a weak smile. He had never been good at keeping order with his belongings. The thought was somehow comforting: he probably hadn’t changed as much as he felt, but something in Harry was quietly making its way to the surface. He had never had a bedroom of his own.

He opened the window, letting the chilly air of the night envelope him in its icy embrace. It smelled of old wood and moss.

From somewhere deep in the Forbidden Forest, came a howl.

.

.

.

They soon discovered that the old rule of no boys in the girls room was still standing but when Hermione joined them in Ron’s room she flopped onto the bed with a mirthful smirk.

“I think if I give you permission I can let you in” she said “Like those old legends about vampires, but it seems you’ll be thrown out from midnight onward regardless of my invitation”

At that Ron at instantly paled.

“Wait, vampire what?”

Harry left his two best friends to their conversation in favor of looking around. Ron was rooming with Dean Thomas since they both would be attending the same preparatory classes for future Aurors which Harry had politely declined. Nobody had understood at the time; Shacklebolt had been particularly sullen when he had officially stated he would not be going down that path, but Harry had been irremovable.

The room was bigger than Harry’s own, with two twin beds at the opposite sides and a wider window with a little balcony. Harry doubted one could put his whole weight onto it and step outside, but it was nice enough for potted plants and worn shoes. Ron’s desk was already submerged with items: parchments, pots of ink, one of Mrs Weasley’s auburn jumpers, a pair of mismatched socks... Hermione had wrinkled her nose but said nothing, a sign she was storing that conversation for later.

Called outside by Dean’s voice they went on a tour of the others’ rooms: some had white walls, some pink, some pale yellow in varying sizes and shapes: Harry’s one was a cube, with four straight angles, while Hermione’s had one wall curling around her bed in a perfect arch, making the geometry of the house impossible to plot.

When they all finished their tours, they decided it was time to unpack and retired to their chambers. Harry however had no desire to do so. He bid his friends goodnight, put on his thick winter robes and ventured outside.

It was dark, the distant lights of the castle casting buttery shadows under his feet. There was nowhere in particular he wanted to go, what he craved was the sobering silence of the night and the cold prickle of winter. He always thought of Hogwarts during the wintertime, under a white blanket of snow, almost never in the summer. May, June… those where the months for exams and goodbyes and almost no good memories came to mind.

He still remembered that time he had to hide behind the bushes of the Dursley’s house just so that he could get some reading done. It had been so uncomfortable, his knees and back bent in ways he had always regretted when his sore muscles screamed at night, his skin sweaty from the heat, just reading or listening to the news.

_You’re here know_ he said to himself. _There’s no need to go back._

Just when he thought he could stand the cold no more and turned to go back to his room, a dark figure emerged from the front door, hurrying down the path to the castle. He repressed the urge to call out, almost drawing out his wand. The days of being followed by dark creatures had ended, he didn’t need to be so alert anymore. He tried to relax his muscles and put his wand back in his pocket, but when a particularly strong gust of wind took them both by surprise, sliding the figure's hood from his head, he bit his lip in surprise.

Draco Malfoy, in fresh green robes, was running away from the cottage, tears spilling from his eyes.


	2. On uncertain decisions and Firewhiskey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter than I had anticipated, but I suspect things will get a lot longer next time. As always, I don't have a beta so please pardon if there are any mistakes.

Classes would be starting the next day and Hermione had already gone to the library three times, checking for every possible book she hadn’t already read. They had set up a camp in their new common room, taking the three armchairs nearest to the fireplace. Ron had claimed the only space remaining on the table to place his wizard’s chess board, trying to lure Dean into a game. So far, he was unsuccessful.

“I’ve already reread all my sixth year notes, but there so many things that I’ve missed” Hermione exclaimed, panicking over one particularly thick Arithmancy manual.

Harry glanced up from his copy of Seeker Weekly and found himself smiling. He already knew Hermione would be getting all of her N.E.W.T.s with outstanding marks, but that didn’t mean she was willing to relax even for a second. She was studying to get a position in the Ministry, to have ”A real chance to change things, you know?” and when Harry and Ron had taken a look at her timetable it had made their head spin.

Ron was taking four classes: Defense against the dark arts, Transfiguration, Charms and, to his dismay, Potions. It was the standard course to becoming an Auror and Ron was eager to start. The only thing clouding his mood was that now he definitely would have no time for Quidditch.

As eighth year students they had been excluded from the official houses’ teams, it wouldn’t been fair to the younger students trying out, but nothing prevented them from organizing little matches between friends.

“Do you think the new DADA professor would agree to give up some of his hours? You know, to go fly in the pitch, stretching our muscles and stuff” he had asked Harry that morning at breakfast “I mean, we defeated the Dark Lord, that has to count for something, right?”

“I’m afraid that would only land you with double hours doing theory lectures” Harry had laughed, leaving his friend to mope on his cereal.

He still hadn’t showed them his timetable. Not that he didn’t want to, it just looked awfully empty.

He wasn’t willing to admit it to anyone but during that eternal summer after the war, waiting for his letter from Hogwarts to come, the more he thought about his future the less he could see himself becoming anything at all. He barely could think of himself as an adult for Merlin’s sake!

When headmistress McGonagall had summoned him to her study her had gone with the trickle dread coming down his pine. He had absolutely no idea what to say.

“Harry” McGonagall had said, her voice strangely soft “You’re not the only one unsure about your future. You’re all young and there are so many possibilities open for you. The only thing I’d suggest for now is to cover the holes that last year has left in your academic education and we can talk back in December, agreed?”

And so he’d left the room with a list of books for Transfiguration, Potion and DADA, his head in even a more confused state than before. He had thought the headmistress would at least reprimand him, because even after all her reassurance, he was certain he was the only one without any idea of what to do going forward. McGonagall words, though, had been oddly comforting. He was young, he still had plenty of time to decide what to do, even when all it seemed to do was slipping through his fingers and wash away.

.

.

.

That last night before the start of the term, Harry would remember forever. Dean had called for a party managing to rope every returning students into the preparations in the span of an afternoon. Even the Slytherins had come down from their rooms and were now reluctantly moving the armchairs aside to make room for tables.

When chairs weren’t enough, they made the cushions bigger and puffier, Hermione and another Ravenclaw girl named Irene casting Engorgio spells all over the room. While Harry was busy levitating paper garlands, gluing them to the ceiling, Ron returned from an impromptu trip to Hogsmeade with two bags full of butterbeer bottles and another, smaller one, containing a mysterious red liquid.

“Rosmerta gave me this one the house” he whispered in Harry’s ear “Said it’s pretty strong stuff so we have to be careful”

But careful was the last thing Harry wanted to be. He had never gotten drunk with his friends, never bashed in the joy of their laughter like in that moment and not even the icy glare of Draco Malfoy could ruin the moment. He wanted to let go and dance and sing in a way that the last year had robbed him of.

It was past midnight when the seventh years came, accompanied by a smiling Neville Longbottom: students from every house who Harry recognized from Dumbledor’s army back in fifth year, now all grown up. Some flashed their prefects badges with a mischievous smile, a sign that no one would be receiving detention that night.

Harry sat on the floor right next to Ginny, who immediately launched herself in a recount of her interview with the Holyhead Harpies recruiter. She was scheduled to start as a benched player next year and she’d already begun making charts and bets over the new Quidditch season. Harry listened to her in silence, repressing a smile when he remember getting the same talks from Oliver Wood in his first years.

That was one of the things that had fortunately remained unchanged: Ginny was a wonderful girl and when she had said she had forgiven him, she had meant it.

He’d been so sure of their relationship back then. She was clever and strong and she looked at him like everything would be alright, but after everything had ended, Harry had had to recognized that feeling for what it was: nothing less and nothing more than friendship. He had leaned into her affection because it was easy and, as awful as it was to say, he didn’t have to work for it. He didn’t have the strength at the time.

Now, he just felt light. Too light to keep his feet properly on the ground, too light to cup her cheek and tell her he could be her anchor if she needed it.

Ah, but that night was different: they were laughing together again after all. Well, Ginny was laughing, almost choking on her butterbeer, while Harry sat there listening.

In the corner of his eye he saw Ron giving him a questioning look to which he responded with a nod. Everything was alright, he was with people he loved, no threat of impeding doom on their heads, and they were having a good time. Hermione was happily chatting with Luna about one new creatures she had found with ther father during their holiday trip and Ron was deep in conversation with Dean and Seamus, trying to convince them to put a galleon on a certain Cannon's player for their next win. Everything was good.

Great, even.

Great. _I'm great._

“I propose a toast!” yelled a Hufflepuff boy whose features were progressively getting blurrier “To this year being calm and boring and the best of our lives!”

They all cheered and Harry raised his glass with an unsteady hand, drinks spilling everywhere. Someone turned on the wireless and they all began singing an off tune version of _You charmed the heart right out of me_ , swinging shoulder to shoulder with the music _._ Harry however didn’t join in. The words “best of our lives” were still echoing in his mind.

His hands suddenly lacked the strength to keep his glass upright so he gently put it on the ground and threw his head back, giving himself a moment to steady his body. Ron had refilled his glass with the mysterious liquor Rosmerta had given him one too many times (Harry strongly suspected it was a modified version of Firewhiskey) and the thought of simply laying there and sleep was becoming rather appealing.

Little groups of people formed and disbanded around him, their conversation flowing from one topic to another, his brain not retaining any of it. Someone tried to levitate his glass from one corner of the room to the other but, tipsy as he was, messed up his spell and ended up with half an eyebrow less, making everybody laugh. Drunk wizards, Harry realized with a smile, could truly be a menace.

He watched as the party came to a close, with all the seventh year Glamouring their cloaks and going back to their dormitories, the conversation around him dimming until it was only a few murmurs. He cocked his head to the side and found Ron and Hermione fast asleep on a blue lined sofa, one on top of the other, and snickered when he realized Ron’s hand was still clutching an empty bottle of butterbeer.

He knew he should’ve stood up, dragging them both in their rooms for the night, but his legs felt like jelly and his motivation to find a more proper sleeping spot had quickly evaporated. They deserved that night on the sofa, undisturbed.

He was so sure everybody else had left that when he heard a little cough coming from the left corner of the room he almost jumped. With bleary eyes he watched as a patch of platinum hair suddenly appeared over him, or were those two people? He couldn’t say; his head was spinning.

“Potter” came a whisper.

Ah, yes, that had to be a dream. Either that or they were both pissed because Draco Malfoy had never used such a gentle tone of voice when talking to him.

“M’lfoy” he mumbled.

“You’re drunk”

At that Harry had to laugh. Yes, he was probably drunk. Had he ever been? Surely not, when had he had the time? And while he felt the room had begun spinning like a carousel, the momentary loss of control came to him with a surge of relief. He had no idea where he had left his wand and for the first time in a long while he found that he did not care. There was nobody left wanting to kill him, was there?

“Possibly” he replied, not sure if to Malfoy or to himself.

A dull sound echoed in his ears and suddenly there was another body sitting beside him.

“You won’t be for too long” Malfoy’s voice was coming from far, far away and too close at the same time. “This liquor is made to leave you without a hangover”

Harry didn’t know if he had replied, his head suddenly all too heavy to keep it upright, so he let himself fall backwards on the cushion, arms spread like a starfish. Why was Draco Malfoy talking to him he didn’t know; he had spent all night huddled with his friends (were they his friends?) at the far end corner of the table, but while Blaise Zabini had almost finished a bottle of butterbeer all by himself, Malfoy hadn’t even taken a sip.

As soon as Neville had brought out the food, mostly composed of bowls of Honeydukes sweets and some other delicacies taken from the kitchens, Harry had noticed Pansy making a disgusted face at her plate, muttering something about a diet, and had laid down with her head on Malfoy’s lap. The Slytherin had trailed one long finger through her hair, his expression remaining indifferent.

Harry had always thought their relationship was oddly sorted at best, but never like in that moment he felt that Pansy was fighting a losing battle. He could’ve casted a Petrificus Totalus on Malfoy and it wouldn’t have made a difference.

“Did’u have fun?” he mumbled, his words slurring into one another.

He didn’t know why he had asked that to the only guy that night who clearly hadn’t had a good time, but he suddenly felt curious. He had never seen Malfoy at a proper party and had no idea what his idea of fun consisted in. In his drunken stupor he imagined a big ball, like the one in fourth year, with gowns and dress shirts and long complicated waltzes only Purebloods would know how to perform. There’d be an orchestra made of enchanted instruments and they’d only drink terribly expensive champagne, never getting more than tipsy.

 _That’s the plot of that novel Hermione gave you for your birthday, you twit_.

A long silence stretched between them, gifting Harry the possibility to turn his head towards the Slytherin. Something was going on under that cool façade, something that was making him cry at night and sit beside his old nemesis while drunk on Firewhiskey, and in an odd moment of clarity, Harry wondered if he could ask.

They were past their petty rivalries, weren’t they? And if so, he was allowed to ask when Malfoy was sporting such a suffering expression… right?

But that night wasn’t the right moment. Too much liquor in his system to choose the right words and not enough nerve to cast a Sobering Spell. Those hurt, burning the alcohol right from your body leaving you boneless for at least a couple hours, and he actually wanted to get some sleep.

He didn’t know when Malfoy had left, but when he woke up the next morning he had a very faint memory of someone wishing him goodnight.


	3. On truces and old memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, a little longer than the last chapter, but still manageable. I want to take things slowly with this story and give everyone the space they deserve, so I hope you'll stick with me for a while :)  
> As always, I've got no beta so excuse the possible mistakes.

The new classes for the eighth years, Harry soon discovered, were going to be very different. The returning students were few and not everyone had chosen the same curriculum so they had been grouped in small circles of no more than four of five students, all allocated to different time slots as to not interfere with the other years classes.

Instead of repeating their missing year course they were going to work alongside their new professors on creating a new and personalized path for each and every one of them, so that they could speed up the process of catching up and move to more interesting personal projects.

Hermione had already compiled a list of possible topics for hers, her dissertation, and had pushed Ron and Harry to do the same, much to their dismay; Ron wanted nothing more than to be done with his NEWTs and begin Auror training, while Harry had still absolutely no idea what to do, but he had to admit, her determination was contagious. In the span of an evening she had convinced all the Ravenclaws to make similar lists, falling in deep conversation with every one of them in turn and then all together. She’d been smiling, that genuine smile than Harry had hardly seen all year, and something in his chest had swollen, terribly warm and joyful.

The new Transfiguration professor, a handsome man called Thomas Hubert, had picked up right where McGonagall had left, asking them to transform a teacup into a little mouse.

“This is just to see where everybody’s level is at. This year will be all about human transfiguration, but a more complex version of what you already studied” he said, leaning onto his desk.

They were in their old classroom, newly rebuild with only minimal cracks still visible on the walls. On every desk was a tiny porcelain teacup, five in total, each varnished in a different colour. To his left, Hermione was already taking notes, her hair bouncing alongside her nods. Ron had been put in the other group and would be taking his lesson in the afternoon, a fact he’d only been so happy to reiterate when Hermione had woken him up at eight a.m. sharp, demanding he at least eat breakfast with them. Somehow his absence had left Harry disoriented: as soon as he had entered the classroom, he had whipped his head back to make a comment about the new desks, but found his side empty.

Now a strange sensation was churning in his stomach, only amplified by the emptiness of the room. No Slytherin was present and other than him and Hermione only a couple of Ravenclaws had joined the lesson. The silence was deafening.

He placed the tip of his wand on the bridge of the teacup’s handle, taking a moment to concentrate. Transfiguration required precise movements and a clear image of what he wanted to change. Fragile porcelain into flesh, paint into fur, handles into ears and snout. He took a deep breath. raising his wand and the teacup started to change. In the mere span of a second he had a little black and white mouse, roaming around his desk.

“Excellent work, Mr. Potter” said Professor Hubert, bending down to scratch the top of the mouse’s head.

Harry felt himself blush, not sure where to look, and murmured a little _thank you,_ waiting for the professor to move to another desk.

Being shy wasn’t unusual for him, plenty of situations had had him beet red, stammering out thank yous and your welcomes to strangers in the streets, but this was different. Being praised like this, how long had it been? He immediately stored that thought for later when a sudden flash of Sirius’ smile appeared in his mind. He still remembered their conversation like it had been the day before, when Harry had asked him if somehow there was something wrong with him, something dark making his way in his soul, and Sirius had looked at him straight in the eyes and said:

_You are good, Harry, good._

And he’d believed him because Sirius’ voice had been sincere and clear of mockery and because he’d loved him, like nobody else had ever done after his parents had died. He missed his embrace, his kind voice laughing in his ear… no, this was no time to think about him. Maybe later, in the privacy of his room.

“Harry” came a whisper and he turned around, finding himself face to face with a concerned Hermione with a little fawn mouse in her hand “Are you okay?”

Harry smoothed out the wrinkles on his forehead with his hand, giving her a tiny smile.

“I’m fine. Just thinking”

The lesson proceeded smoothly, with only minor damages when Irene Greenwaltz lost control of her wand filled the room with swarms of bluebirds. Harry was sure a feather or two was still stuck somewhere on his body.

For his personal curriculum he would be working firstly on some variation of the Crinus Muto incantation, then slowly working his way to faces transfiguration, which made him think about Tonks and he felt a small smile tugging on his lips. That night he would write to Teddy and Andromeda.

“No one of you is a Metamorphmagus so we’ll all have to take the hard route” Professor Hubert said, his voice sharp “This types of transfiguration are better done in pairs, so that one can make the other come back to his original form if necessary. I suggest you find yourself someone to start working with today”

Harry had no other classes until late that afternoon: the new professor for Defence against the Dark Arts had asked to meet them at sunset and in autumnal Scotland that meant right after four.

“I’m so glad they found capable new professors” Hermione said, trotting down the corridors to the Grand Hall “McGonagall said they have received thousands of letters asking for a job here, but most of them were just bogus. Do you have any idea how many people demanded to take Trelowney’s place because they’d had a catastrophic prediction and something terrible would happen if they didn’t?”

“When has she talked to you about this, exactly?” Harry asked, trying to keep Trelowney’s big shiny eyes out of his mind.

He’d never really liked the Divination professor, always seeing death in everything he did during her class, and everybody knew she wasn’t very good at her craft. Her prophecies, in a way, had been the catalyst to everything, his parents’ death, Sirius, Lupin, Tonks…

_Keep these thoughts away. Keep them in the back of your mind, where they can do no harm._

“…the renovation, I think I’ve told you already”

Hermione’s voice came back into focus and Harry gave her an apologetic shrug. That was his universal sign to please repeat, Hermione, I’ll pay attention this time.

“The letter she sent me, remember? We’re trying to find a way to find the missing statues. McGonagall said she’ll be searching the markets for some new paintings over the winter holiday and asked me if I could research some mending spells.” She said, stopping right in her tracks: they had arrived in front of the new Arythmancy classroom. The old one had been obliterated by a Bombarda “This castle is old and probably the most magically charged of all England. These walls have absorbed thousands of years of incantations and there’s no way to know how it will react to some of the spells I want to try”

“But you already have something in mind, haven’t you?” Harry said, finishing the sentence for her. Hermione’s smile bloomed like the most beautiful of flowers.

“Of course I do. I’ve been writing to some witches in Italy, lots of ancient buildings there, millenniums old, and they’ve been giving me some feedback. When I’ll be ready I’ll let you know, I’ll definitely need some help”

Harry left her to her next class, a warm feeling pooling in his stomach. It felt good to see her so motivated, his memory going back to SPEW in their third year, but what felt even better was her saying _I’ll let you know_ , like she’d been thinking of including him in her plan all along. They’ve always been together, them three: Hermione, Ron and Harry. Never seen one without the other, was it? But it had been a long time since he’d felt like that sentence held true. If he really wanted to be mean about it, ever since his two best friends had fallen for each other. He’d never had any friends before them and, for a brief moment during the war, he felt like he’d almost lost them and he was back to square one: him against the others. Him against all odds and prophecies and destinies.

But that thought hadn’t lasted. He loved them, unconditionally, and loved to see them happy together so he’d kept his mouth shut and just breathed it out. He wasn’t going to ruin it just because of jealousy, not anymore.

He adjusted the buttons of his robe and walked out of the castle in the autumnal air, shivering slightly in the cold. He had nowhere to go, but the warmth of his common room sounded rather lovely so he set on the path to the cottage, hands shoved in his pockets.

The air smelled like rain, dark clouds pooling over his head, but Harry felt almost comforted by the sight. It was going to be winter soon and snow would cover the ground like a soft blanket, painting Hogwarts like the one he always dreamt about.

When he came about the cottage he opened the door, immediately discarding his shoes at the entrance and taking out his wand to Scourgify them: the weather hadn’t been so forgiving and his soles they were full of mud. But as soon as he put down his wand and turned around, he felt himself freezing in the spot: sitting in the otherwise deserted common room was Draco Malfoy, sound asleep in one of the armchairs. His body, always perfectly straight, was sagging against the backrest, a tiny book open between his hands.

Harry held back his breath, not sure what to do. This was probably Malfoy’s free period and he’d chosen to spend it reading near the fireplace, now that all the others were busy with classes. Something about that sight made Harry bit his lip in frustration; that Draco Malfoy, the one sleeping with a peaceful expression on his face, his blond hair falling over his nose, was not the same he remembered. The one in his memories was sarcastic and cruel, always opening his mouth to make sure to have the last word. His eyes never left his opponent’s until he was plastered to the ground and he would’ve never let anyone see him being kind or lenient on anyone.

Harry could probably guess were the change of heart had begun, Merlin, he’d been there with him, hanging to that broom for dear life as fire chased after them like a hungry beast, but the contrast was too stark, too sharp. It made it difficult to remember.

He took a careful step forward and sighed in relief when the Slytherin didn’t wake. He marched over to the stairs, but at the last minute turned his head and peered over Malfoy’s shoulders. Just out of curiosity, he told himself, and read:

_“But these young people have such an intelligent, knowledgeable surface, and then the crust suddenly breaks and you look down into the depths of confusion you didn't know existed.”_

_Strange._ Harry thought _It sounds awfully familiar._

And that was the moment Draco Malfoy chose to wake up.

He opened his eyes, long blond lashes batting away the sleep, a found a pair of green ones peering down at him with the intensity of two tiny suns. To his credit Malfoy didn’t jump in his seat as Harry would’ve done, he just stared at him for a moment longer, then pressed his mouth into a thin dangerous line.

“What are you doing, Potter?” he hissed, closing his book with a loud bang that echoed faintly in the empty room.

Harry opened his mouth, not sure what to say. _I just wanted to see what you were reading_ didn’t seem like a good excuse and _you were just so beautiful_ was even worse so he settled with a weak:

“Nothing. I was going to my room”

Harry could see Malfoy didn’t believe him, but didn’t reply. He just stood up, smoothing the fabric of his pants with his hands, and sighed.

“Listen, I know you probably don’t want to see me here” Harry made an irritated noise but Malfoy ignored him “And trust me, I’m not sure I want to be here either, but I have to, so could we please…”

“Be civil about it?” finished Harry for him.

“Yes. I’m not saying we should now braid our hair and merrily go out on the town holding hands, but I don’t… I’m trying to use this time wisely and I don’t want someone glaring at me every time I enter a room, it’s exhausting”

“I don’t glare at you” Harry protested.

He hadn’t, really, he’d just… he stared. It was a habit he found difficult to get rid of. Not because he thought Malfoy was scheming against someone, that had only been true their sixth year, and even then he had to admit he’d been rather obsessive about him, but because he couldn’t pry his eyes off of him. Malfoy was like a magnet, sucking the light out of the space he occupied and Harry was a distant star, sometimes orbiting around his path. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help it.

“Potter…” Malfoy sighed, a wrinkle of irritation forming on his forehead.

“Okay, okay. Do we call truce?”

Harry extended his hand and watched with tentative eyes as Malfoy arched one perfectly shaped brow and then shook it. His fingers were long, his pale skin reddened by the cold, and Harry found himself, for just a moment, unable to let go. He watched as Malfoy opened once again his book and sank back in his armchair as Harry had never been there, pushing his hair out of his face.

When Harry closed the door to his room behind his back, he let himself fall on his bed, watching the fishes swim back and forth on his pillow.

His cheeks were aflame.

.

.

.

The new DADA professor was a petite woman with spiky dark hair and deep smile lines around her mouth. Her name was Samantha Bones, her tongue skipping through her name in a soft lisp, and she already knew every student by name, which made Harry immediately like her.

They met in a spare classroom with no desks, the walls decorated with posters and diagrams of plants and seeds. It had once been a spare Herbology room to use for purely theoretical lessons, but it had been abandoned when professor Sprout had come to Hogwarts, clearly preferring the sunlight of the greenhouse. Hermione had told him that after acquiring a whole planimetry of the castle from McGonagall’ office, already taking her role foreman very seriously.

“Here you are” said Professor Bones to the last student entering the room, flicking her wand to close the door. “Now, I know probably most of you had no initial interest in taking this class, thinking that after what you’ve been through I’ve got nothing more to teach you”

Harry tried to hide his embarrassment in the collar of his shirt. He’d said the exact same words to himself just before the start of the term, but after McGonagall’s speech in her office and a long night of thinking he’d put it back in his timetable. Lupin would’ve been very proud.

“Now, now, don’t look so glum. I’m sure I’ve got something up my sleeve that will make this term a lot more interesting”

That said she put her wand safely in the pocket of her robe and snapped her fingers. Harry heard the collective gasps of the students around him when the lights gave out, plunging the room in complete darkness. The only source of light were the stars, twinkling softly outside the windows.

It wasn’t the first time Harry had seen wandless magic being performed in front of him, Merlin, he’d been using it since his sixth year to Accio things across the room without even thinking about it, but as he listened to the excited voices of everyone in the classroom, he realized he’d probably been the only one.

“As you could have guessed, this year we’ll be focusing on wandless magic in dangerous situations.” Professors Bones voice rang quietly in the room, her body only a faint silhouette “You never know when the opponent will be able to knock your wand out, so you have to be ready at all times. Please note, however, that wandless magic if often unpredictable and difficult to control. Never point your fingers at a fellow classmate with the intent of performing something on their face, you could find yourself without a finger or two, do I make myself clear?”

Harry couldn’t see the others, but he was sure everybody was nodding alongside him. All those times alone in his room, floating things with a flick of his wrist just because he was lazy, he could’ve blown up the Burrow, all Weasleys included… a chill ran down his spine as he swore to always use his wand when out of Hogwarts from that point on.

“Now” the professor went on “I want every one of you to concentrate on your magic. Remember how it feels when you have a wand in your hand. It should be like a current, like a warm feeling running up from your core to your fingertips. You can think of it as a spark running down a wire or a river, whichever image you prefer, but I want you all to concentrate on it”

Harry closed his eyes, evening out his breath. He thought about how casting a spell felt, the easiness that came with it, but he found it felt a little different from Professor Bones’ description: it was like trying to grasp something that was already surrounding you; not the quick running of water down a stream, but the placid act of submerging his hands in its waters.

“Now I want you all to try and cast a Lumos spell. You can say the incantation out loud with the gesture that most feels natural to you.” She said, her voice shifting from one side of the room to another, a sign she was walking among them “The aim of this exercise is not to get the light to turn on, but to make you aware of your power. The art of casting a spell does not come with a simple wand movement, it starts in your chest, in your throat, in your lungs. Feel the magic coming and going and find your center”

The room was immediately filled with both whispered and shouted Lumos, none of them making the lights even flicker, but Harry could feel the air vibrating with their efforts. It was in those moments that he didn’t know who to thank to be born a wizard.

Instead of trying out the spell like his classmates, Harry stood with his mouth and eyes closed, feeling the air around his body becoming warmer and warmer, thick with his magic. It smelled like burnt wood, like a bonfire gone awry, but also sweet, like those lemon custards Mrs Weasley used to make him for breakfast when he was younger and thinner.

“Mister Potter”

The professor’s voice came out of nowhere, right behind his left ear, and almost made him jump.

“You’re the only one who hasn’t tried it aloud. Go on, voice loud and clear please”

Harry nodded, not sure if in the right direction or not, and breathed in. If anything was going to go wrong, he could always count on her help. And so he let himself fall, submerging his body in the waters of his own power and…

“Lumos!”

His voice burst the bubble of the room like the prickle of a needle, magically charged like none of his spells had ever been, filling the air with the smell of smoke. And the lights turned on, twice as bright as they’d been before, revealing the bewildered faces the other students.

“Well done mister Potter”

Professor Bones looked a little out of breath, as everybody else in the room, but after a first moment of silence, excited hands came to pat him on the shoulders, everybody asking _how did you do it?_ and _could you do it again?_ , their questions accompanied with bright smiles, and Harry felt himself going back to the room of requirement, to Dumbledore’s army.

When the professor called their attention back to her, however, Harry sighed in relief. Something felt… not off, but different.

He vaguely registered the ten inches essay on famous wandless casters for next week and exited the room, making his turn for the Great Hall. Something about that simple Lumos had left him starving.

.

.

.

That night, he dreamt of Sirius.


	4. On old books and exploding cauldrons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the people who commented on my latest chapters, you are all so sweet! Your words gave me motivation to properly finish up this chapter, I hope you enjoy :)  
> As always, unbetaed so let me know if there are any mistakes.

Their first week back was nothing like Harry had expected, although, if he thought about it, no year at Hogwarts had been the same for him. No Basilisk in the basement to slay, no Triwizard Tournament to win, no Death Eaters to attempt at his life. He often wondered how had all the other students lived through their years at Hogwarts, just studying hard for classes and going shopping in Hogsmead and falling in love.

Days passed in tranquil stupor, Hermione pouring over her books, urging him and Ron to do the same, running back and forth from the cottage to their classes and sometimes the Quidditch pitch, to watch the team try-outs and wave at Ginny, whishing her good luck. As much as both he and Ron missed playing a real match, seeing their friends having fun in the air was almost as rewarding. They had fought with all their might for that peace.

As for his lessons, Harry walked in and out of the classroom with the levity of an owl feather: he listened to his professors, he copied their movements, he learned, rinse and repeat. Professor Bones was still trying to make everyone light up the room without a wand and that left him pretty bored, but he found he didn't mind waiting for the others. Potion was, as always, the worst, because it meant paying close attention to every little movement of his wand while stirring and his silly mistakes got him icy glares from Pansy Parkinson, who sat right across him in the newly arranged basement.

“So you _do_ have something you’re awful at” she’d commented the first time he’d dropped one too many rats’ tail in his cauldron, making his Hiccoughing Solution, turning it a very peculiar shade of pink.

That comment had not stung as he would’ve expected, maybe because it was her, or maybe because he'd always been awful at Potion and was now resigned in living with the doubt: would my own potion kill me or not? One thing he had to admit though: she’d matured more than everybody else. She now wore her hair in a light bob long enough to barely cover her ears, the tips lighter than the roots; her face was thinner, the skin taut on her cheekbones, but her eyes shone dark, full of sharp sarcasm.

He knew he should resent her, she’d tried to sold him to the Dark Lord for Merlin’s sake and even before they'd never been the best of friends. She’d always been one of Malfoy’s shadows, the only one with a tongue to rival him, but even after everything, he found himself unable to put a name on the feeling he was experiencing; not hate, just… a dull ache at the base of his stomach, like something left unsaid.

“I’m doing a better job than you” he'd reply, leaving her to scowl down at her couldron.

That day they were going over the bases of brewing Veritaserum (Harry felt himself shudder at the mention) and Slughorn was detailing all the rules there were to creating such a powerful potion:

“Call me immediately if it does not turn clear, some of the ingredients you’ll see have the tendency to become fuel and ignite very easily. We wouldn’t want another fire starting in our new classroom, would we?” he said, bouncing on the heel of his feet.

He turned to the balckboard and flicked his wand, making the chalk move in elegant sweeping motions while listing all the ingredients they needed for the base.

“You’ll start with this, leaving it to sleep overnight, and then tomorrow we’ll start the true brewing period”

Harry had slowly risen from his stool, not wanting to attract the professor attention, and gone to retrieve the ingredients, but when he came back he found Pansy already mincing some knotgrass leaves into thin stripes at their shared station. Harry looked up at the board and found the plant nowhere on the list, but chose not to say anything. At least, until Pansy chose to break the silence herself with a loud huff.

“I’m so bored” she said, not loud enough for Slughorn to hear, then looked up at him, her nose scrunching in displeasure “You know what, you were at least more interesting in sixth year”

Harry froze, his hands tight around his ladle, and stared at her.

“You mean" he started, incredulously looking at her "When you and Umbridge founded your little inquisition squad and tried to have us expelled? All while Voldemort was gaining more and more power?” he hissed, his voice angrier than he really was.

To her credit, she only flinched a little at the name, but kept her back straight, her nose up in the air. Apparently ot even the Dark Lord could chase her upbringing out of her system.

“Yeah.” She said, dumping the knotgrass in the cauldron “At least you talked back then”

“I talk” he mumbled. Now _that_ stung. what did she know anyway; they'd never been friends and they certainly were not know, so why...

“Oh yeah? Like yesterday, when you almost stepped on my foot in the common room and just fled? I thought the Boy Wonder was supposed to at least be polite”

Harry felt his cheek redden at the memory. He’d been off balance from the lack of sleep and had not seen Malfoy nor Pansy entering the cottage’s common room, stumbling forward and only at the last minute stepping back to evade colliding into them. To be truthful to himself, if it had been anybody else he would’ve apologised, maybe popped a little joke and gone upstairs to catch up on sleep, but the sudden spark of blond hair had made him falter.

Malfoy.

They didn’t see much of each other those days. Harry was always surrounded by someone, be it his friends or students whose name he didn’t know, asking for signatures and tales of a past he didn't want to relieve. He spent his free periods in the Great Hall, playing chess with Ron or Luna (she was an awfully smart player), or outside, basking in the coolness of the weather. Hermione always managed to drag him to the library where he sat, distractedly flicking through the pages of his textbooks. At the third kidnapping he'd decided to borrow some books from Dean and began reading _Quidditch a history: from backyard game to national sport._

He didn’t know what Malfoy had chosen to do for eighth year, which subject he was following now, and while he could tell himself a hundred times he didn’t care, he’d learnt in time that lying to himself was just a waste of time. They’d been rivals since he was eleven, on opposing sides of a war, there was no way he wasn’t just a little curious, not after Malfoy had explicitly said how important that year was going to be for him. And then there’d been that night. The night he saw Malfoy cry and run out of the cottage like his arse was on fire.

“There he goes, lost in his little fantasies. I’m still here you know?”

Pansy’s voice pierced trough his thoughts and Harry reflexively opened his mouth, not really sure what he was going to say, but every other idea fled his brain when, right that moment, Pansy's cauldron began smoking blue.

“Is it meant to do that?” he asked her, already taking a step back.

“I suppose not” she murmured and ducked her head down just in time for the bindings of the cauldron to give away, exploding like a firework in hundreds of tiny little pieces amids the smoke.

Harry found himself pushed into a corner by the sheer magical force, but when he carefully pulled his head up, he found no injuries on him. He checked for his hands, they throbbed quite a bit, but found nothing more than a few cuts. Nothing out of the ordinary, until someone screamed:

“No way Parkinson, look what you’ve done to my hair!”

.

.

.

So Pansy turned everybody’s hair blue.

It was not the first time this had happened: back when Ron had broken his wand and repaired it with Spellotape, he’d turned them a light shade of violet (he distinctvely remembered Seamus calling him grapehead for at least two days), and after that there’d been an entire week dedicated to changing hair color and texture in Transfiguration back in sixth year. It was almost tradition to see student sport extravagant looks for at least a couple of days during the spring.

The issue was not the turning blue, nor was the eplosion in itself; it was that Pansy had done it, a Slytherin, and only Slughorn’s imperious voice had stopped the Ravenclaw student who’d first screamed from lunging at her a ripping out her scalp.

Harry had made his way back to the cottage with a bewildered laugh still bubbling in his throat. Slughorn’s hair, previously white, had turned the most ridiculous shade of electric blue and he couldn't wait to tell Ron.

Theyd been excused for the day, double hours of Potions be damned, and there was nothing Harry wanted more than a warm cup of tea and a nap in his favorite armchair, but when he got to the cottage and opened its doors he felt a keen sense of déjà vu: Malfoy, soundly asleep by the fireplace, a book in his lap. This time however he woke up as soon as Harry entered.

He watched the Slytherin stretch, entranced by the fabric of his robes pooling on his shoulders, and almost missed the black lines making out the dark mark on his arm. Almost.

Malfoy finally opened his eyes, but the scowl he always had in place when looking at Harry was instantly replaced with an amused smirk.

“Tring out new fashion trends?” he asked.

Harry frowned and ran by the mirror near the stairs. He’d been sure he’d transfigured all his hair back to black, but when he looked at his refection he found his eyebrows were still blue. He sighed, pointing his wand at his face with a soft sweep.

“Yeah, well, you might want to ask Parkinson. She’s the one who did it”

Draco immediately jumped from his seat, startling Harry with half a jump, his expression alarmed.

“What? Where is she?”

Harry looked at him in surprise, not really sure what to do. After a tense moment he finally shrugged, combing his hair back to his forehead.

“She’s in detention with Slughorn, I think. She had to clean up the place: her cauldron exploded” he said, but noticing how Mafloy’s expression was turning from concern to panic he immeditaly added “Nothing happened, she just turned our hair blue. It was fine”

“Fine?"

"Yeah, fine" he repeated and Malfoy visibly deflated.

The Slytherin let himself fall back on the armchair, making it creak under his weight. Harry knew he should give him time alone to calm down and go upstairs, but something in him kept him rotted to the place.

Draco was even thinner than Pansy, his blond hair just a mop of strands without shine, his lips perennially pale and chapped. His eyes remained the only thing retaining an ounce of his previous defiant nature, but even that was almost lost behind an aura of tiredness

Something in their situation wasn't right. Harry Potter, saviour of the magical world, and Draco Malfoy, alone in a room together and not at each other's throats. He repressed a little laugh. Was that going to be their future? Politely walking the same roads, maybe spotting each other in London or in the Ministry and saying _"Hello, how are you"_ and _"Hello, I'm fine, and you?"._

And so he made a decision, already sure he was going to regret it later: he stepped near the fireplace and crouched down to Malfoy’s eyelevel.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

There was nobody else in the room, but he felt and odd pressure down his neck, a lick of nervousness. That upclose, Malfoy's eyes were two pools of mercury. deadly to the touch, but beautiful, oh so beautiful. He pressed his hands to his knees, pushing back on the ruge to part his hair so he could see them better.

“Yeah Potter, all flowers and rainboys here” Malfoy replied, his voice devoid of a real bite. Then, after a long pause “Nobody got mad? About the hair, I mean”

Something in Harry’s mind clicked. Malfoy was concerned about his friend.

_Uh. That's... not as unexpected as it should be._

He knew Slytherin wasn’t the most popular house to be sorted right now, but returning students had it the worst: he’d witnessed a Hufflepuff, Merlin a Hufflepuff, trying to hex Blaise Zabini to fall down the steps of the courtyard, missing by barely an inch, and just the day before at dinner Goyle’s water had turned incandescent , burning his tongue almost damaging his wand hand. And of course, the incident on the train.

“Yeah, it happens more than you think" He said, trying to keep his voice calm "Cathia Boregard was a little upset though. She’d recently dyed them blonde and apparently doing it the muggle way is very expensive” 

Malfoy, he knew, couldn’t care less about Cathia and her freshly died hair, but as he went on, telling him about the silly details of the story, he realized it seemed to soothe his mood, smoothing out the lines of worry from his forehead. So he went on: he told him about Slughorn's electric blue hair and how the walls of the basement were now plastered in tiny pastel dots, how he'd asked Pansy why she'd put the wrong ingredient in the potion and she'd replied _just bored_ with a mirthful expression, and on and on, mindless words spilling out of his mouth just because he could. 

When he finished his tale he watched as Malfoy slowly came back into himself, his back strightening, his chin raising in his usual defiant pose, and he instantly knew the moment they'd shared was gone.

He quickly decided to put himself out of the awkwardness growing between them and went back to his original plan: hot tea and a nap by the fireplace, with or without Malfoy there.

He stood and knocked three times on the wood right above the grape painting, one of McGonagall new arrivals.

“English Breakfast, please” he asked

A cup of steaming hot tea materialized in his hand. It had been an odd discovery: Hermione had run some diagnostic spells on the cottage _“Just to be sure”_ she’d said, and had discovered the house was a goldmine of hidden spells. For example, singing a lullaby to the flowerpot in the upstaris bathroom made the stairs convert to a ramp, which Ron had instantlyput to use making Seamus slip back down to the ground floor, but if you stroked a particular spot on the Wireless you could tune it on muggle radio frequencies, to the delight of Hermione who had taken a liking to a particular pop singer. The spot in the wall Harry had knocked on made for an instant connestion to the kitchens; they could only ask for light beverages like tea of coffee, but Harry was extremely grateful it existed.

He sat back down on the armchair next to Malfoy, who had picked up his book and was now keeping his eyes glued to the page.

_It’s the same as last time._ He noted.

He hadn’t forgotten Malfoy’s request and well, being civil with someone did include some small talk, didn't it? 

“What are you reading?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

Malfoy raised one brow, contemplating the question.

“Why do you care?” he replied and Harry discovered that he sounded genuinely curious.

“I thought it looked familiar, that’s all”

Malfoy nodded, his expression still a little perplexed, but lowered the book and handed it to him. Harry felt is breath falter: it felt an awuful lot like a peace offering. He gingerly took it in his hands, afraid that if he ruffled even one page Malfoy would turn back to his old self and storm out of them room.

He traced the title with his fingers:

_Brideshead Revisisted, by Evelyn Waught._

He racked his brain on where could he possibly have found that book before and than it hit him: it had been one of Sirius’ . Alongside with Grimmauld place he had inherited quite a lot of the Black's family herilooms, every piece of furniture, every ominous moving painting, and even after the Aurors had swept up the place it still reeked of Dark Magic.

What he hadn’t anticipated to find were Sirius' old stuff. Hidden in his childhood room under thick layers of protecting charms were three tiny boxes: one contained a collection of photo albums, of him, of him and his parents, of their friends when they were young. Harry had put that one in a corner, not daring to touch it and damage it; another he opened to find a teddy bear, one eye missing, a deck of cards which pictures and numbers kept changing every time he shuffled them and an old quill. It was all that remained of Sirius' childhood, he suspected.

The third one was full of books. Magical ones, about brooms and Quidditch and old singers whose name he didn’t recognize, but also Muggle ones, romance novels, sci-fis, adventure stories, all bearing a little inscription saying:

“From a galaxy to a star”

He’d asked Andromeda the day after finding them and she’d looked through the boxes with tears rimming her eyes.

“I had almost forgotten I used to get him these”

It turned out they were all birthday presents, smuggled from an outcast kid to another.

A collection of Isherwood’s early works, James Baldwin’s _Giovanni’s room,_ Forster’s _Maurice,_ the entirety of Oscar Wilde’s plays and poetry and, of course, Evelyne Waught’s _Brideshead Revisited._

When asked about the book’s contents, Andromeda had simply laughed, shaking her head, and said:

“It was a bit of a rough time for him. Lots of figuring out to do”

And now Malfoy had the same book. That was… unexpected.

“Can I have it back?”

Harry nodded and handed him the book, slightly bewildered. Sirius Black and Draco Malfoy, reading the same book in different eras. Hermione would've had a fit.

“I didn’t know you read muggle books” he said.

“You don’t know many things about me”

At that Harry opened his mouth… and then promptly closed it as Hermione entered the cottage. She was animatedly talking to a girl with deep black curls Harry recognized as Talia Kumar. As soon as they realized they were not alone in the room the two girls stopped talking and Harry consciously stood up, not really sure what to say.

But apparently he didn’t need to say anything at all because Malfoy had vanished, his robes rustling up the stairs, and Harry felt a pang of regret down in his stomach. He had almost fooled himself that they were having a proper conversation, but no ammount of small talks could unwind years of spite. 

Hermione walked up to him, eyes big and thoughtful, and patted him on the shoulder. He knew that expression.

“Is everything alright?” she asked.

_Draco Malfoy reads the same books as my godfather,_ he wanted to say, _also, I think he might like men._

“Yeah” he murmured instead “At least, I think so”


	5. On late night talks and old jumpers

_Dear Andromeda,_

_Classes are going good; we're still experimenting with wandless magic and professor Bones says I have a good affinity with my magical core. I still have no idea what that means, but I hope it's a good thing._

_The weather is getting chilly, Hermione thinks it's going to snow soon._

_I hope you and Teddy are doing good, please give him a hug from me and tell him I think about him. If there's anything he could like for Christmas, please let me know. We're visiting Hoagsmead this weekend and I plan on doing some shopping._   
_I plan on visiting during the winter holidays and Molly Weasley wants me to ask you if you and Teddy would like to join us for Christmas at the Burrow. Don't feel obligated to say yes, if you'd rather stay at home I'll come with the Floo._

_I also wanted to know if you could send me the recipe for that tea you used to make, the one with ginger._

_Sincerely,_  
 _Harry_  
.  
.  
.

The moon was high in the sky, close to a full circle, when Harry woke up from a nightmare. In it, he had been in the department of mysteries, staring into the quiet void of the veil, listening to the fragments of voices coming from the other side:

_You did this... your fault... it hurts... come back..._

  
Angry words, full of despair and regret, but sometimes he could hear a softer _I love you... I miss you... I'll wait for you..._

  
He had been standing there for what felt like an eternity when suddenly a hand was on his forehead, pushing him down on the marble floor, hissing: 

  
"I can touch you now!"

  
He had began to scream, thrashing against Voldemort's skeletal frame keeping him down, down, down, on a floor that was now grass and Cedric Diggory's body was suddenly there with him, his unseeing eyes burning right through his forehead.

  
He woke up with his head buried in his pillow, choking on a sob. His skin was cold, rippled with goosebumps, and his throat was dry, like he'd been screaming.   
It happened some times, Hermione or Ron waking him up in the middle of the night because he was screaming his heart out. It was one of the reasons he'd permanently moved from the Burrow to Grimauld place.

  
He coughed a few times in the fabric, watching as the fishes swam away to avoid his hands, fisted on the sheets, and dried his cheeks with his pajama.  
After a long time he stood up, unable to keep his eyes close long enough to fall back to sleep. Behind his eyelids, Cedric was still staring at him.  
He tried to do some stretching like Andromeda had suggested him to: slow rotations of his joints from his neck down to his calves, waiting for the goosebumps to subside.

  
It was always the same: nightmare, waking up still high on adrenaline, spending his night with his back against the wall, trying to trick his mind into meditating.  
You're safe. You're friends are safe. Everything's okay.

  
He decided on a late night drink, something warm and sugary, so he opened the door and went downstairs, making sure not to make the floorboards creek. He still avoided the seventh step, the same one that had always tripped him in Privet Drive.

  
The common room was plunged in total darkness, the bare silhouette of the furniture rendered visible only by the pale light of the moon. He'd left his slippers in his room and walked now barefooted on the floor, trying to suppress the shivers of cold running down his spine every time he stepped off the carpet.  
He groped his way through the room, reaching the grape painting with only some minor accidents (he'd stabbed his left toe on two separate armchairs) and gently knocked on the wall.

  
"Chamomile please" he whispered, hoping he wasn't waking up some poor house elf only for him.  
The cup immediately materialized in his hands, almost burning his thumb. He held it up to his nose and inhaled, already feeling his muscle relaxing. It reminded him of winter mornings at the Burrow, trying to bat away the cold before joining Ron and his brothers on a Quidditch match in the garden.

  
He slowly turned around, hoping he was not spilling anything on he floor, and made to head back to his room. Not wanting to tempt fate twice he closed his eyes and concentrated on his index fingers. He reached into himself, diving into that river that everyday made itself more and more familiar and murmured and faint:  
"Lumos"  
The tip of his index finger shone bright, its light a little blue, illuminating his palm. Pleased with himself, Harry took one step forward and raised his hand, lighting his path, but his smile immediately froze on his lips: a pair of clear eyes were looking at him, flames dancing between the irises.  
 _Cedric is dead_. He told himself. _That's not him. You're awake._

  
But his body refused to move, his memory already going back to his nightmare and that night, locking his arms in a defensive stance that he knew was useless.  
He found himself unable to speak, even when a familiar voice asked:  
"What are you doing?"

  
Malfoy took a step forward and finally Harry let himself breathe. It was getting harder, keeping his nightmares away from reality. Sometimes those two blended together so seamlessly he had to ask Ron or Hermione "Remember when..." just to make sure things were actually over and he really could go about his day without death looming over his shoulder. He'd quickly stopped doing that though. Every sentence after that always began with "Oh, Harry, is it happening again?" or "I think you should talk to someone" and he had grown tired of the mechanical I'm fine reply. 

  
But when it was Malfoy who appeared from the darkness, he found himself lacking the strength to lie. There was no need to anyway; the Slytherin wouldn't care either way.

  
"Had a nightmare. Chamomile helps" he said, raising his mug "What are you doing here?"

  
He didn't mean to sound accusatory, but if Malfoy got ticked off by that he didn't show.

  
"Greg snores" he said, giving his illuminating hand a peculiar look. "Professor Bones is working on wandless magic with you too uh?"

  
Harry nodded, not really sure what to say, and watched as Malfoy walked to the wall, gently knocking on the wood. His fingers were almost iridescent in the blue Lumos light.

  
"Lavander and rhubarb" he said.

  
Suddenly the room was filled by a pungent smell that made Harry think of Mrs. Weasley's kitchen, of those tiny little digestives she used to make them at the end of festive dinners. " _So that belly aches don't give you nightmares_ ". Ron always whined they tasted like raw vegetables, but Harry liked them.  
"Are you planning to stay there all night?"

  
Malfoy's voice snapped him back from his reverie. He was curling up in what Harry thought the Slytherin had deemed his favorite armchair, one leg hooked over the other, glancing at him expectantly. 

  
Harry looked at him for a long moment, shifting from one foot to the other, then dispelled his Lumos, only to point his fingers at the fireplace murmuring a brief "Incendio". A feeble flame burned its way though the ashes of the old one, illuminating the room with soft buttery light.

  
Harry decided to sit right across the other wizard, hiding his face behind his mug. He had no idea why he hadn't yet returned to his room. Somehow being there, sharing a peaceful silence with Draco Malfoy while drinking something warm, felt right. 

  
It was a rare feeling, one he remembered experiencing only on Felix Felicis, and he had no intention of shattering he spell.  
"So you're taking Defence" he said, cringing back at how uncertain his voice sounded.  
Malfoy raised a perfectly arched brow, not really looking at him. Aided by the light of the fireplace, Harry could now see his eye bags had worsened, their color veering on purple. He looked so tired.

  
"What's in it for you if I tell you?" 

  
"Nothing" he replied, fighting the urge to scowl "I was just curious"

  
Malfoy took a sip from his mug, resting his back on the arm chair. 

  
He looked so different like that. Harry remembered a painting in Malfoy's manor, a family portrait where Draco couldn't have been more than fifteen. He'd looked so regal there, his posture perfectly straight, his body adorned with luscious green robes and shiny dragon hide shoes. His face, painted with marvelous strokes so full of pride and hope, was now hidden by a worn out hand, eyes closed behind his fingers.

  
"Yes" he murmured "I'm taking Defense with the morning group. Nobody has yet managed to conjure anything more than a spark without a wand" one of his eyes popped open, looking bitterly at him "Of course you would though. I bet tomorrow's Prophet headline will be: Harry Potter, savior of the magical world, summons a Patronus with the flick of his fingers"

  
"I'm not..."

  
The thing was, Harry really wanted to snap at him, to tell him how much of a git he was like old times and maybe take revenge for that broken nose, but he could feel tiredness oozing out from Malfoy like smoke. In the past every exchange between them turned cruel and angry and Harry wanted to believe he wasn't like that anymore. 

  
_You're good Harry, good._

  
Besides, he knew Malfoy's words had no bite to them. He was just a tired wizard on a Wednesday night, just like he himself was.

  
"I don't know about a Patronus, but I can levitate stuff"

  
He closed his eyes, praying he wasn't about to burn his bollocks off, and murmured:  
"Wingardium Leviosa"  
When he took his hands off the mug, it miraculously remained were it was, happily floating at about half a meter from the floor. With a gentle tug of his fingers he pushed it towards Malfoy, landing in his free hand.

  
The other wizard looked at him, then at the mug, then back at him, his mouth twisted in a wobbly line.

  
"How in the bloody hell are you doing that?!" 

  
"Spent a lot of time without a wand" he said, watching Malfoy flinch.

  
Mentions of the war were still an open wound for him too, it seemed.

  
"I also practiced without knowing" he added, forcing a little smile "I had nothing to do at the Burrow and started calling for things without my wand. I thought everybody could do it"

  
Malfoy gave him a incredulous shrug.

  
"Merlin" he huffed "And here I thought I was finally going to beat you at something"

  
Harry furrowed his brows, at which Malfoy gave him a curt laugh. He put the two mugs on the floor and murmured:  
"Lumos"

  
Malfoy's palm sparked alive with light, bright and blinding, before immediately going back to normal. 

  
"Well" Harry said, trying to repress a smile.

"I know what you're going to say, Potter. Spare me"

The whole situation was surreal. If Harry didn't know for certain that he was awake, he would've pinched himself to make sure. Him and Draco Malfoy, talking like... not exactly friends, but something close to that.

"Oh yeah?" He retorted, a sly grin tugging on his lips "Try me".

They were sleep deprived, that's what it was, or else he couldn't explain when Malfoy made a noncommittal gesture of go ahead and cocked his head just so, making Harry smile again.

"I thought, and feel free to agree with me here, that was a great attempt at a Lumos spell. You're clearly ahead of your group"

A moment passed.

"That's it?" 

Harry nodded.

"That's it" he replied, and the strange thing was, he was totally sincere "Of course, if you want me to say that you're a berk and that your hair is stupid I could always do that tomorrow"

They stared at each other for a long moment, then Malfoy's shoulders began to hiccup, suffocated laughter filtering through the hands on his mouth, and Harry let himself join in, not really interested in being quiet. 

Laughing. They were laughing.

"Who would've thought" Malfoy croaked, trying to calm himself down "The Boy Wonder has a sense of humor"

"Always have. You were just too insufferable to admit it"

"Ah, I'd love to argue on that, but my tea is getting cold" Malfoy said, taking his mug back into his hands "And I really need to go to sleep"

Harry nodded, trying not to think at the pang of disappointment resonating in his stomach.

"See you tomorrow then" he said, watching the Slytherin stand up and stretch, his long limbs going up and up towards the ceiling.

He was tall, perhaps even taller than Ron. When had that happened?

"I suppose I will"

And with that Malfoy went up the stairs, leaving Harry alone in the common room, an old ache spreading in his chest like a flood.  
.  
.  
.

The next day at breakfast, Harry received an owl.

It was a common occurrence, he regularly got letters from Shacklebolt or the Weasleys and sometimes from Andromeda, but this time he didn't recognize the owl.

He quickly shared a look with Hermione and Ron, who immediately put a protective arm on his shoulder.

"Should we test it?" Hermione asked, wand already out.

Harry looked around, feeling the eyes of the entire common room on them, and shook his head. The owl was almost completely black and it bore a rather large package which looked soft and pliable between its claws. A golden square tag on the bird's left foot indicated it was one of the rental owls from Diagon Alley.

"It's safe" he said, taking the package and carefully opening it.

Inside was a warm wool jumper, but unlike Mrs. Weasley's ones, it was adorned with rows and rows of maroon and cream chevron. 

"That's a nice one you've got" mumbled Ron, clearly thinking of the pink monstrosity he'd gotten as a present from his mother at the start of the year.

"Does it says who sent it?" Hermione asked, lifting a sleeve and finding a little envelope.

_Dear Harry,_

_Me and Teddy were doing some spring cleaning (I know, I know, but it's almost winter time and we put all the coats in the attic) and I found a box of Sirius' old clothing. Most of them were ruined beyond salvation, but this one jumper was still intact, so I thought you'd like it._

_It'll keep you warm for sure, your old bastard of a godfather used to go out in only that and jeans, no jacket or anything, and never got a cold. I suppose running away from all our parents' howlers kept him warm, the fool. He'd go Merlin knows were, probably some muggle pub with your father, and bring back piles of old books and records. No idea where those last ones went, I'll write to you if I can find them._

_If the jumper doesn't fit there's a spell for that, just let me know._

_As for Christmas plans, we've got none, but we'd be delighted to accept the Weasleys' invite. As for presents, Teddy is on a musical tirade, banging on pots and chairs, so anything quiet and baby proofed would be marvelous._

_On the back of this letter you'll find that tea recipe you wanted. Has to be mixed no more than three times with sugar, or else it grows bitter._

_Stay safe,_   
_Andromeda._

_Ps: Come visit soon, Teddy misses you._

Harry passed the note to his friends, letting the warm feeling of the wool envelop his hands.

It was in those moments that he really wished things could've gone differently. He knew so little of Sirius, years and years of blank space filled only by the scraps of information he'd gotten from him when he was still alive. There'd been photographs, sure, but those only went as back as his last Hogwarts years, leaving his youth a mystery.

He could almost picture him, young and fearless, going out in secret with his father James to a pub and trying to sound older to order a beer. Or maybe sneaking into a library to smuggle books home because he had no muggle money, reading those intricate synopsis that promised an explanation to what he was feeling.

"Do you want to try it on?" came Hermione's careful voice.

Harry decided to ignore his friends' worried stares, like he was on the brink of lashing out or bursting to tears, and put the jumper on. 

_Andromeda was right_ he thought _it's pretty bloody warm._

He knew they were expecting him to say something, but Harry didn't trust himself enough to comment so he tried to change the subject asking Hermione about her research on the castle.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, almost knocking out her bowl of porridge "I got a reply from Italy. They sent me a list of references I can read, I'll need to find time to go to the Library this afternoon, but honestly, it's so interesting"

"Oh Merlin, here we go" Ron murmured, but with an affectionate tone, his gaze soft.

Harry felt himself smiling just looking at them.

"Apparently old walls like the ones here can absorb so much magic it can make some part of the castle to grow... let's say a little character"

"Like Grimauld place?" Asked Harry, mind going back to that stubborn door on the second floor that would never open on Tuesdays.

"Yes, exactly. We should start mapping every area were this thing occurs and compare that to the places were most statues are gone. Claudia Signorini, wonderful witch, wrote an interesting paper on the matter, says I should find a connection between the two"

"And how do you propose one does that?" asked Ron "I don't know if you've noticed, but the whole castle behaves funny. Always has"

"Of course, but she said to look out for unusual behaviors. Say for example the Main Staircase stops trying to change lanes, that's be odd. Those are the areas of fluctuation in the magical atmosphere. 

First step will be to monitor them and then we report back to McGonagall"

"And I suppose that by we you mean..."

But they already knew the answer.

"Us three of course." She replied, a wicked smile on her lips "We meet in the common room after dinner. Don't be late"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I taking my sweet time letting things progress? Yes, yes I am :)  
> As always, unbeta'd, so please pardon any mistakes you may find.  
> edit: reformatted it, because the first time it was a nightmare :)


	6. On new and old mysteries

It turned out the castle was a lot bigger than they had anticipated. There were turrets hidden inside other turrets, secret rooms only accessible with particular spells, corridors that liked to change their tilt, sloping up or down depending on the day of the week, and when looking at the map in their hands Hermione’s plan quickly transformed into an impossible feat.

"We just have to compartmentalize the work: today I take the Long Gallery, Ron you take the Quad and you Harry take the Hospital wing." She said, crossing out those areas on the map "Inspect every wall, every piece of furniture. They could have a different smell or start making funny noises. Whatever it is, write it down alongside the position and if you remember a statue or an armour being there"

"Merlin's beard"

"All in legible calligraphy, please" she added, pointedly looking at Ron. “All this is going back to McGonagall”

And so the three went out the cottage, battle plan ready, and separated in the Great Hall, each going their own way.

.

.

.

As much as Harry hated to admit it, he knew the Hospital Wing like the back of his hand. Looking back, there hadn't been a single year at Hogwarts without him knocked out in one of the white linen beds, be it to regrow an entire bone in his arm or to heal from a Bludger on the head. Hermione loved to say he was a magnet for disaster and he couldn't say he disagreed.

"Can I help you?" came Madam Pomfrey's voice and Harry turned around to see the familiar face of the witch who had always tended to his wounds

She was in her usual uniform, the same expression he’d seen her wear every time she caught the winds of a Weasley prank all those years before, but something was different: her hair was almost completely white, deep wrinkles carved in her skin following the lines of her worries. She looked younger, in a way, her eyes flaming blue, her back straight as a wand, but the battle scars were many.

"No Madam Pomfrey, I'm here to take a look at the room for Headmistress McGonagall" he said, lifting his roll of parchment.

She gave him a thorough scan, from the top of his head down to his feet, then nodded, seemingly convinced of his good health. For now. Harry had a hunch that when it came to him the nurse had had special orders to always make sure he was not injured or concussed in some way.

"Go on then, but be quiet. I have a patient sleeping in bed three"

Harry looked down the room and saw a vague sleeping figure behind the drawn curtains.

“Poor girl really needs to sleep right now” she murmured.

“Who is it?” Harry asked, a feeling of dread trickling down his spine. Surely none of his friend had managed to get hurt so soon into their term.

“Astoria Greengrass. Always had poor health that girl”

The name didn’t ring any bell and a surge of relief washed over him, immediately followed by guilt. Just because he didn’t know her it didn’t mean she wasn’t suffering.

Mind now set to his task, he travelled down the room as quietly as he could, letting his hand roam on the heavy stones of the walls. If he closed his eyes he could feel a light current going from his fingertips to the surface below, like a hushed conversation between old friends. It was an odd feeling, but not an unwelcomed one.

It took him close to an hour to examine every inch of the room, moving then to inspect the supply closet and the various other contiguous rooms.

In the end he found more peculiar things that he would've liked: one of the beds, number fifteen to be exact, refused to open its curtains; all bottles on the highest shelf of the supply closet were permanently glued there and when he had taken out his wand to try and unstuck them, they had scooted over to avoid his spell like they were made of rubber; not only that, one particular stone on the northeast wall looked like it was breathing, sometimes even puffing out a cloud of hot steam, while another on the opposite side really disliked being touched and had the nasty habit of giving a little shock every time someone was near. But above all, every spot that was now behaving funny, he remembered being close to an armour or a stone bust, now all gone.

When he was certain he had gotten everything down he notified Madam Pomfrey, watching as she comically scrunched her nose in distaste, like she couldn’t believe something had happened to her haven without her knowing, and hurried him out.

"My patients need peace and quiet. I'll see what I can do about the supply closet"

And with that he was left on his own in the dim corridor, not really sure what to do. He was to regroup with Ron and Hermione once he was done, but as he hurriedly made his way to the cottage he found them nowhere to be seen.

As he shed his thick coat (it was getting rather chilly, the first snow crystalizing in a slippery ice surface over the path) he was greeted by Seamus and Dean, hunched over a chess board, and Irene, Hermione's friend, who was half-heartedly writing on a piece of parchment while looking at her planet model. He vaguely recalled Hermione telling him she was hoping to take over her aunt’s tarot reading shop and so she was taking an advanced course in Divination.

_Better her than me_ he thought, grimacing at the memory of Trelowney’s bug eyes.

His friends were likely to be still working in their respective areas of the castle so he went up to his room, put away his notes and came back with a little bag and a scroll of parchment.

Inside the bag was a lock of dark hair, tightly bound with a red string. Professor Hubert had given it to him-

_"-to practice. Crinus Muto is a relatively easy to learn spell, but precision is where everything usually goes wrong"_

His homework for the week was to try and change the colour of the lock of hair without affecting the ribbon all while documenting his experiment.

He took out his wand and placed the tip on the lock, drawing an elegant arch with his wrist and murmuring:

"Crinus Muto"

The hair immediately turned a fair shade of blonde, almost platinum, but just as he was about to rejoice, he noticed the hem of the ribbon had taken the same light shade. With a deep sigh he began writing:

_"Attempt no. 1 unsuccessful, ribbon turned blonde"_

He tried again with a less natural colour, but the ribbon still followed: blue hair, blue hem. Then tried a smaller gesture while casting, whispering the spell, yelling it, turning his wand while casting. Around attempt number eight he began getting restless and unintentionally turned the whole lock white with red polka dots.

He threw his head back, noticing that Ron and Hermione were still out, and he decided he had had enough of homework.

"Care to join us for a round?" Seamus called out, noting him putting away his parchment.

"No, thank you. I think I'll go out for a walk"

Seamus looked outside the window, then back at him, eyebrows raised.

"In this weather? You sure, mate?"

Harry followed his gaze: the moon had just made her debut over the trees and everything was bathed in her pale light making the ice on the path glisten. He felt a shiver just looking at it: while immensely beautiful, Scottish winters tended to be on the crueller side.

"Yeah, I'll just cast a warming spell." He said, putting his coat back on and wordlessly charming his robes "If you see Ron or Hermione just tell them I'll come back soon, yeah?"

"Sure"

.

.

.

And so he ventured into the night, just like that first day back, no destination in mind. He strolled around the walls, steering as further away from the Forbidden Forest as he could. Instead he made his way down the path to the Great Lake, carried on by the wind.

He found himself alone on the shore, looking at the surface of the water as if hypnotized: it was pitch black, like a large expanse of ink, dotted by little waves that kept coming and going, crashing into each other in a spectacle of foam.

It was so quiet. So unusually quiet.

He breathed in the sweet air of the night, listening to the sound of the water, and a thought suddenly hit him.

_This is what magic feels like._

In that moment he was sure that if he immersed himself in the water, it would be the same feeling as when he tried to cast without his wand: magic free of its rein pooling around his body like a deep-sea creature around its prey.

The realization made him dizzy and suddenly he had to know; he took off his boots and socks, strengthening the warming spells on his skin, and rolled up his pants, walking towards the water.

Even with strong enough magic to make his feet numb with warmth, he felt the cold bite of the lake eating away into his flesh, but instead of walking back he hissed and went forward until he was submerged up to the ankle.

_Yes,_ rejoiced a voice in his head _Exactly like this._

In that moment he felt like he could do anything: conjure a thunderstorm, turn the lake into steel, fly up in the sky without a broom, everything was possible, just a flick of his hands away. He felt full, up to the brim with magic, like an electrical charge surging from the deepest parts of his chest to his fingertips and...

He was not alone.

"Why is it that wherever I go I find you already there?" came a pained, familiar voice "And what in Circe's name are you doing?"

Harry turned around, all traces of the elated feeling from before lost in the wind, and found a pale, bloodshot eyed Draco Malfoy staring at him like he had gone completely insane. He was wrapped in a thick green coat but he was still shivering and his ear were all red.

Well, going into the waters of one of the most dangerous lakes on England in the middle of winter was probably a little foolish when seen from the outside, Harry had to concede.

"Oh, you know, just going for a swim" he shrugged, hiding the fact that he now felt mildly ridiculous "What brings you here? I thought you disliked the cold"

"I-” he faltered “Yes, how do you know that?"

At that Harry had to laugh.

"I spent a whole year following you around and you talk an awful lot about yourself" He stepped out of the water, drying his feet with a swish of his wand, then sat down on the shore near his shoes. "It was impossible to not pick up a thing or two"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Malfoy raise a pointed eyebrow before loudly exhaling and joining him down on the sand.

"So" he said.

"So" Malfoy repeated.

A charged silence stretched between them.

It was... odd. Harry knew that if it had been anyone else to find him he would've had to explain himself. Nothing of what he was doing would’ve made any sense in their eyes, but ever since that night in the Forbidden Forest his life had felt like a string of nonsensical events: open conference, visit Teddy and Andromeda, cry, hoping nobody hears you, attend funeral, rinse and repeat. He couldn’t remember half of the places he had visited while on tour with the Ministry, no recollection of any of his speeches or public speaking.

He had lost his sense of direction; no idea on where to go or what to do. He followed people, he laughed when he felt others laughing, he smiled when he felt it was appropriate to do so. Sometimes he woke up and thought he was back in his cupboard, making no noise so the Dusleys wouldn't hear him. This however, begin back at Hogwarts and studying something magic related, made sense. It was soothing, in a sense, like it was something he was always supposed to do but never fully could.

"What are you doing here? Really"

Harry turned his gaze once again to the lake, trying to commit that new feeling to memory.

"I was not paying a visit to the Giant Squid, if that's what you're thinking" he said, trying to keep his tone light. "Just doing a little experiment"

He knew Malfoy wouldn't make a fuss like Hermione or Ron, but somehow he felt the need to reassure him. He cocked his head, letting it rest on his knees, and gazed up at the other wizard: Malfoy looked like he'd just stopped crying. His eyes were puffy and rimmed with red skin, with long faded marks down his cheeks following the path of recently dried tears.

"You okay?" He asked, his voice barely a whisper above the wind.

For a moment he thought Malfoy was about to stand up and leave him there, wondering what the hell had just happened for the rest of the night, but instead his face fell forward, sinking into the safe embrace of his crossed arms. He looked so tiny, like he was barely able to take up the space of his own body.

"What do you think, Potter?" He said, his tone harsh, but directed more at the lake than at Harry himself "My father is in Azkaban and I have no idea if he's alive of not, my mother is confined to the Manor and I'm stuck here, in this stupid bloody castle where nobody likes me and the only friends that I have are suffering, so yeah, everything is going nice and peachy, thank you for asking"

And then he coughed, his chest heaving as if he had used his last breath to carry the anger out of him.

Harry's hand hovered over his back, rapidly retreating to his pocket once he realized what he was doing. Had it been literally anybody else, he would've offered some words of encouragement followed by a hug, albeit an awkward one, but still, he would've had some kind of idea of what to do. With Draco Malfoy nothing seemed right.

And so he let the sound of the waves fill the silence, taking him back to that trance he had been in before, with his feet in the lake. He could almost feel magic still oozing out of his skin, pooling around his ankles like the water had been, leaving a thin line of dried sand.

"It's a nice place" he said "to get away for a while"

Even with his eyes closed he could feel Malfoy looking at him, his grey eyes boring circles in his skin.

"Yeah, and it was _my_ spot before you came here" he grumbled, all anger seemingly forgotten.

Harry was about to retort with some of their usual snark, but something in his mind suddenly clicked.

"So you came here. Our first night"

Malfoy widened his eyes, an emotion ghosting on his face so quickly Harry barely had the time to see it, and then his mouth morphed into a wobbly smirk.

"Still in the habit of stalking me, Potter?"

"Don't be a git, I was taking a walk and I just happened to see you. You were..."

_Crying_.

Harry waited, searching on the Slytherin’s face for some traces of the truth, but found only hurt. It was so carefully covert that he could almost trick himself into thinking this was just the good old Malfoy, scowling at him from the other side of the classroom.

"Not one of my best nights, no"

"What happened?" then, noticing Malfoy's pained face, he added "You don't have to tell if you don't want to"

“I might as well. You, and I’m saying this begrudgingly mind you, are probably the only one who could understand." he said "Besides, I don't care. Tell your little friends if you want to, it doesn't matter anymore”

He took a deep breath, as if bracing for impact, then turned his eyes to him, grey and thunderous. Harry wasn't sure he'd ever been looked at like that before.

“I get nightmares. Not every night, but often enough and I thought coming back here could somehow cure me, change of scenery and all. It didn’t work”

Harry and Draco Malfoy could be as different as the sun and the moon, but after experiencing the most terrible war in recent decades and losing so much of their past lives, nightmares were apparently a shared problem.

“Sometimes I’m back in the Manor, when Voldemort was there.” He whispered “Sometimes I’m here, in the tower. Doesn’t matter where, I always make the worst decisions, and when I wake up I don’t even have the solace of thinking _oh, it was just a dream_ because everything already happened and I really did do all those things”

_Me too._ Harry thought. _I know that guilt._

“I… I’m sorry”

There was nothing more he could say. He really was sorry, because whatever he saw every morning looking in the bathroom mirror, the pain and the sorrow of a child gone into war, he could see now reflected into Malfoy’s eyes.

In that moment he wondered, not for the first time, what would’ve happened if that day eight years ago he’d taken his hand.

_Nothing good_ said a voice. It oddly sounded like Hermione. _It’s no use to think of the past when you don’t have the power to change it._

But thinking about the past was all they did. They had spent so long trying to remember the happy times: the evenings spent huddled up in the Three Broomsticks, feeling like grownups drinking their Butterbeers, or going out to play in the courtyard, waiting for the next Quidditch match… In their bleakest moments it had seemed their only hope to not succumb to despair.

Did Malfoy have any fond memories of his time at Hogwarts? Sure, he’d had acolytes, maybe even a girlfriend (had he and Pansy ever been really together?) but he had no idea if he’d ever had friends. People to talk to in moments of need, with whom he laughed and joked and had fun growing up.

“If you want” he started, finding himself with Malfoy’s full attention. “If you need to talk to anyone, just to take things off of your chest, I can… well, I can listen. They tell me I’m good with that”

“You”

Malfoy was now looking at him wide eyed, clearly unsure if Harry was taking the piss or not. Harry wasn't sure either. The only thing he knew was that he was tired, frozen cold and Draco Malfoy needed a friend.

_Me and him. Friends._

“Yeah, me. I mean, can’t be worse than trying to freeze yourself here in the middle of winter. Plus”, and here he tried a smirk “I have no intention of giving up this spot, so might as well share”

The Slytherin stared at him a while longer, then dipped his face into his hands, massaging his temples.

“You are the most insufferable, most Gryffindor wizard I’ve ever met. You know that?”

Something in Harry stomach finally unclenched and he found out he'd been tensing his shoulder throughout all their conversation.

“I’ll take it as a yes” he said, a light smile playing on his lips.

“Merlin and Circe help me”

And then they laughed. A tiny chuckle, so feeble it was almost lost with the wind, but it roared in Harry's ears like a howl.

“If you want to hear me cry and shout at the water, Potter, be my guest. I’m surely not going to be in the Prophet’s headlines tomorrow as the one who tried to drown himself”

“I was not-”

“Then what were you doing? Testing the water? It’s winter for Merlin’s sake”

“I was trying out a theory” Harry said, grimacing into his knees.

It wasn’t a lie, per se; he'd had a theory, just a very recent one. No description of what casting felt like fitted his experiences and he wanted to know why, maybe find another path to follow. He had no problem turning the lights up or calling for things without his wand, but as the days flew by, Professor Bones was making less and less sense.

“In Defence we’re learning about wandless magic, you know that.”

“Did I ever”

“And just… nothing the professor says makes sense to me. _Feel the energy from the inside and push it outward, like a spark following its wire etc. etc._ but for me it’s all different and I can’t understand what I’m doing wrong”

“Different in what sense?” Malfoy asked. Something in Harry’s words had obviously piqued his interest.

“For me, it’s not a movement from the inside to the outside, everything is already out. When I cast, I don’t call for magic, it’s already there. It’s like… it’s like it’s floating above my skin and it’s just waiting for me to let it do something” he looked down at his hands “I tried asking Hermione, but for her it’s like an ignition, same thing for Ron”

Harry turned, opening his mouth to add something, but quickly closed it: Malfoy was lost in his thoughts, chin pointedly pinched between his fingers, and for a moment, Harry forgot how to breathe. He looked like a fairy. Not the real, magical fairies, but the ones in muggle stories, with sparkling hair and frail skin and eyes so beautiful they could draw you in and you’d be lost for weeks.

And when he spoke, Harry felt something in his chest bubbling up.

"I remember when I was a child my father telling me that raw magic feels like a cocoon. Wizards with an affinity to Healing can feel this in babies and small children" he said, his eyes distant "There are so many things that can go wrong when a magical being is born, so its own magic protects them until they're ready to face the world. I don't know if it connects to your case, but it might be it"

"What... are you saying I'm like a child?"

"No, Potter. Though, sometimes I think you're stuck in year one Potion with no way out." A gust of wind ate his last words, making him raise his voice "I think... I think you have been in a state of constant peril since the day you were born and your magic reacted to that taking a different shape. Think of it like a race: say you need to go run every day, at some point your body recognizes the feeling and you sprint without even having to think, because the muscle memory has formed. Same with magic; you needed a quick access to it when you were little so your magic stayed in the way you needed the most: already there, at the tip of your fingertips"

Harry stared at him in awe. It was so easy to forget how clever Malfoy was: he'd always been second only to Hermione, even beating her in Potions. Only a clever magician would be alive in his place. In his head he was still that hateful kid who'd made his life miserable, who'd sold his secrets to the Prophet and almost poisoned his friend. 

_But he's also brilliant._ And brave. And sad.

Almost like a real human being.

"How do you know all these things?" he asked.

"Pureblood upbringing." Malfoy replied, scrunching his nose "For all the nonsense that it thought me, there's a type of knowledge passed on from generation to generation that never gets talked about. First year I thought everybody knew. Apparently ancient families loved to keep secrets from muggle-born wizards to feel superior and then just... forgot to tell them"

"Uh"

Harry was at loss of words. That had to be the longest conversation he'd ever had with Malfoy and the first time he'd heard him speak ill of his Pureblood status. It was... bewildering.

"Wait" he blurted "What knowledge? There's more than this, isn't there?"

For a long moment Malfoy didn't speak. Then he rose to his feet, patting his shirt clean.

"You should ask the Weasel. His family is still part of the Sacred Twenty-eight, even if I have no idea why" he said, looking back at the castle. The next words were barely a whisper "You should go back. It's getting late"

And with that, Harry was once again left alone.

In the distance, a black form rippled through the waters of the lake, only to disappear a moment after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene was so dificult to write, but Draco being clever and vunerable is such a delight. Also, I thrive on the fact that Pureblood families hoard some secrets of magic and everybody is confused when they talk about them like it's public knowledge.  
> Hope you enjoy :)  
> Edit: I went back and edited some of the grammar mistakes I made. I also added some sentences so it should be more readable now :)


	7. On old friends and newer ones

Harry was tired.

It had been a long time since he’d had a good night of dreamless sleep and it was starting to show in his waking hours.

The morning after the lake he woke up with a scream trapped in his throat; when he tried to recall his nightmare, he found only a fleeting memory of a dark silhouette and a feeling of extreme cold, like something was sucking the life out of him.

_Dementor, dementor._ He could almost hear the voice of a thirteen years old Malfoy taunting him in his head.

When he finally found the energy to get dressed and leave his bed, he found Hermione already waiting for him in the common room. Ron was nowhere in sight.

“He said Professor Bones wanted him and Dean in the Quidditch pitch at the crack of dawn.” She explained, walking at great speed towards the Great Hall. The early morning air was unbearably cold “Auror training, or so he said.”

Harry looked at her, possibly for the first time since the start of term: her hair was uncharacteristically styled in two long Dutch braids, disappearing into the thick burgundy cloak she’d bought right before the start of school. Her skin glowed pink, pinched by the cold, giving her the illusion of a blush. And while Harry knew she’d always looked pretty, in the way little boys can find a new toy or a ripe fruit, he’d never paused to think how she had turned beautiful.

Hermione looked like a woman. An irritated, determined, beautiful woman.

“If I find out it was just an excuse to have a clandestine Quidditch match I’ll spell his broom into next Tuesday”

Harry let himself laugh. Knowing Ron, not even the prospect of a good Quidditch match could make him get up before the sun on a winter morning, but he found it best not to argue.

He knew he wasn’t the only one sleeping badly. After the war, Hermione’s parents had had a long and painful hospitalization in St. Mingo before they could get back their memories. Hermione’s charm had been so potent it had taken them almost a month before they could remember their daughter’s name.

It had been soul crushing: she’d cried for days on ends, more than he’d ever seen her cry in their entire friendship. He had to watch, powerless, as she carried the weight of her guilt everywhere she went: when they went out for breakfast, when she spoke to their friends, when she fell asleep on his couch in Grimaulds place and Ron had to carry her home, tucking her head in the crook of his neck so she could hide herself from reality for a little while.

Her parents now remembered enough to owl her every week and to send her gifts on her birthday, but they still forgot the little things, like keys and pens and business cards. Hermione had found her mother’s old wallet, neatly tucked in her trunks. They’d been complaining about it the last five days.

While that period of her life was still carved in her skin (literally, the scars on her arm had never faded), she’d found peace in her routine: breakfast, classes, study time, occasional date with Ron or leisure time with friends, sleep. Wake up, do it all again.

“My mother always said it’s good to rely on a schedule” she said to him that day, pondering over her eggs “I know Ron is different but…”

“But you wish he could be a little less unpredictable” he finished for her, trying not to splutter between bites of bread.

“I don’t know if I would say unpredictable, but yes. Ever since he started this mysterious Auror training he talks about nothing else.”

Harry nodded, feeling sympathetic. On one hand, she was right: those days every conversation with Ron started with a “So yesterday at training” or “Me and Dean had to do this incredibly difficult spell that…” and it was getting tiresome; on the other, though, Harry had never seen his best friend so radiant: he smiled a lot more, he practically galloped his way to every class and even found the energy to laugh at Seamus terrible jokes.

Sometimes Harry wondered if that was who Ron was supposed to be if he had never met him: never doubtful of his cleverness or his importance, never afraid to crack a lame joke in fear of no one laughing, openly loving of his girlfriend even when they always argued about the littlest things. This version of Ron was what his younger self had seen in the mirror of Erised: tall, happy and charismatic.

“… and you know how much that broom costs?”

Hermione’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts and he found himself shaking his head.

“Over a thousand galleons. Ah, but he said it’s worth it. A thousand galleons, for a stupid new broom. Like they wouldn’t give him one better than his Comet when he gets in the Ministry”

Harry repressed a snicker. Ron always complained about his old broomstick, but never made a serious move to replace it.

“I wouldn’t worry.” He said “That’s George’s old broom and he told me there’s a little surprise inside if Ron ever tried to replace it with another”

Hermione sighed, thorn between her usual scolding look and a more mirthful one.

“As long as it’s not a slug-vomiting charm, I suppose that’s alright”

“Oh, no. I think it’s way worse”

It was nice, talking to Hermione like that. About Ron, about nice things like little pranks or brooms or breakfast. He’d missed it more than he wanted to admit.

When he turned his head to the other side of the table, however, he found a very angry Pansy Parkinson looking at him like she was about to transfigure him into a bug and squash him under her boot. Harry gave her a little wave, but that only seemed to make her angrier.

“I heard her detention with Slughorn didn’t go so well” Hermione whispered.

“What, for the blue hair?”

“Yeah. Apparently Slughorn decided to hold additional lectures on how to handle safety in the Potion room while she was scrubbing cauldrons.” She said, looking genuinely concerned “Mustn’t have been nice”

“Merlin”

Harry gaze travelled through the room, trying to avoid the curious looks of the younger students. The first couple of days back he’d been cornered by young wizards and witches everywhere he went. They were eager to hear his story and get his autograph, but after the last time he’d shouted at a second year Hufflepuff that no, he didn’t want he clearly spiked cookies and that if she tried again he would have to report her to the headmistress, things had calmed down. The stares, he could handle. It was not pleasant but it was manageable. It was the talking that was exhausting.

When he looked at his table a second time, he felt his shoulder sag.

Malfoy was nowhere to be seen.

.

.

.

“You should feel your centre, like a ball full of energy” Professor Bone’s voice boomed in the classroom, almost making Harry jump.

They’d been meditating for a good fifteen minutes in perfect silence to prepare for the lesson. Sitting on the cold floor, Harry had followed the directions of the professor into a state of rare tranquillity, the feeling similar to the one at the lake, but more focused. This time, he had a purpose.

“Push the energy out of you like you would push a door. Feel its resistance and win it over. Then, when you’re ready, we’ll try some disarming charms on our mannequin”

One by one, the students began to rise to their feet and form a queue in front of the dummy the professor had brought in that morning. It looked eerily similar to the ones Dumbledore’s Army had used in the Room of Requirements.

“Okay now, one at a time”

The first student, a Ravenclaw named Marcus, managed to make the dummy shake, but its stick wand was still lodged in its metal hands. Same went for the next witch, and the next, until it was Harry’s turn.

“Go when you’re ready, mister Potter”

But Harry had been ready the minute he’d walked in the classroom. Magic was there, buzzing around his fingertips, and when he yelled his _Expelliarmus_ he felt a wave of raw power surging from just below his throat and out like a thunder.

The wand stick went flying, alongside the mannequin’s arm.

A long silence filled the room, broken only by the professor’s voice:

“Excellent attempt, Mister Potter. A little unprecise, but we can work on that later”

When class was finally dismissed, the professor called him back.

Harry watched his classmates disappear beyond the entrance door, leaving him alone in the room. He hesitantly sat on the chair right across the professor’s desk, trying not to squirm under her imperious gaze.

“Mister Potter-” she started, but Harry immediately interrupted her.

“You can call me Harry.” He said, his voice small “The other professors usually do, if it’s after classes”

He wasn’t going to say that it made him happy because to reminded him of Lupin, of the way he used to call his name with such affection he almost felt like he’d found part of his family in him. Nor he was going to say that mister Potter was still his dad and thinking about him was still as painful as a fresh wound.

“Very well, Harry.” She said “I noticed you sometimes get frustrated during my lessons. If there’s anything you find challenging, know you can always tell ask me. We’ll find a solution together”

Harry was taken aback. Perhaps it would’ve been the logical things to do, asking his teacher, but it had never crossed his mind to do so. He’d never had the best track records with getting help from adults, but maybe he’d just not met the right one yet.

“I… I don’t get the thing about pushing” he said, hating the way his voice sounded so unsure “For me, it’s about calling for something that’s already out. Someone told me that is the case for baby wizards, that their magic protects them like a cocoon.”

The professor looked at him, her dark eyes shining under her lashes.

“May I ask who this someone is?”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, not knowing how to respond. It somehow felt disloyal to mention Malfoy’s name, as if that could somehow get him in trouble.

“A friend. Pureblood”

“Ah, I see.” She said, relaxing in her chair “I was wondering about that. This type of information reekes of Pureblood upbringing.

Yes, magical born babies, not just wizards, are protected by their magic like a shield, or a cocoon, as you put it, in their first years of being alive. That magic gradually gets absorbed, only to come out in extreme situations, usually around eleven years old for humans. That’s why we start magical school so early in our development: you can understand, all that power without any control is the perfect recipe for disaster”

Harry thought back on aunt Marge, floating away in the wind, and nodded.

“I suppose, though, that for a child with a troubled history like yours it could be a little different. Perhaps your magic felt the need to protect you for a prolonged period of time and at the end stayed like that, around you instead of just inside your core”

She pondered, absentmindedly scratching her chin.

Usually when someone referred to him as having a “troubled history” it made him furious, because it felt like an insult. Professor Bones however said it like a fact: he’d had a difficult life that shaped the way his current self now behaved, as simple as that. And apparently his magic too.

After a long minute of contemplation, she finally stood up and declared:

“Okay, here’s what we’ll do.” She grabbed a quill and scribbled something on a scrap of parchment “I’ll give you a couple manuals that could be useful. Read them carefully, then report back to me. Oh, and ask your _friend_ if he knows anything more. Merlin knows how much I’d like to get access on all those Pureblood records”

That said, she pushed him out of the classroom into the empty corridor, whishing him goodbye with a little wave.

Harry looked back at the now closed door of the classroom, wondering if that conversation had really happened or if he was just too tired and dreamed it all.

When he finally went back to the Great Hall, he looked back at the note in his hand and let out a long sigh.

That was going to be a long day.

.

.

.

When Hermione came back from her Erbology class (it was optional, but it fit her schedule and she couldn’t refuse extra points in her curriculum) she found him sprawled in his favourite armchair, head buried in his book.

“Are you perhaps… studying?” she asked, feigning shock.

“Hey! You say that like I never do” he sighed, third time that day, and put down the manual.

Hermione bent down, reading the title on the spine: _It’s a wizard! A practical guide to magical pregnancies._ Her face immediately went from amused to horrified.

“Harry, is there something you need to tell me?”

He burst out laughing, not even caring if the group of Ravenclaws had suddenly grown silent, clearly listening to their conversation.

“I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re worried about. This is my new DADA homework”

He told her all about his conversation with Professor Bones, leaving out his encounter with Malfoy at the lake. He knew he should tell her, but it still felt like a secret that should be kept.

“Interesting” was all she said, before plopping onto the chair opposite of him and taking out a book of her own from her bag “I think I read something about early magical development in wizards, but I can’t remember where. I’ll search for it tomorrow”

“Thank you”

The evening passed rather slowly, with Harry rereading the same passage in his book at least thrice before proceeding to the next one and Hermione completing her last inches of her Arythmancy essay. He could hear someone upstairs listening to the wireless, an old tune he was sure he’d already heard once at the Burrow, and before he knew he’d closed his eyes and drifted into a drowsy half-sleep.

All that was left was Ron’s commentary on the recent Cannon’s loss and it would have been the perfect evening.

_You’re missing something you never had._ Said the ugly voice in his head, but he immediately dismissed it. His best friends were living a somewhat happy life, he had a place he could call home to go back to and a broom he could fly onto if he felt like it.

It was enough to be happy.

.

.

.

He awoke with a jolt.

He was covered in sweat, cold and sticky on his skin, and his heart was furiously beating in his chest like a thunderous storm. He searched for his glasses and didn’t even had to tug the little string For the lamp to turn on.

This time he remembered: he was back in the Forbidden Forest, Voldemort’s wand pointed at him, and he knew he had to die. Either him or everybody else, and it was fine, really, it was fine, he already knew what he had to do, but he was so scared. He didn’t want to die, he didn’t want it to hurt that bad, he didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to die, he didn’t want it to hurt…

_You’re awake._ He said to himself. _You’re at Hogwarts. Everything’s fine._

He moved his hands up and down his arms and legs like Toks had once showed him, grounding his body in the moment. When he felt sufficiently better, he got out of bed and silently made his way downstairs.

He walked in the dark, not enough energy to think about what he was doing, and knocked on the wall three times.

“Water please”

He drank his cup, then asked for another, and drained that too. He was about to ask for a third one when a single light awoke near the fireplace and two familiar silvery eyes squinted at him.

“We have to stop meeting like this” Malfoy said, and Harry could almost make himself believe there’d been a humorous note in his voice.

Malfoy was sprawled on the blue and silver couch, usually used by the Ravenclaws, with a thick woollen blanket covering half of his body. A book was open upside-down on the floor, the cover offering the image of a beautiful man in smart pants.

“Were you sleeping here?” Harry asked, looking at him through his fringe.

It had been a long time since he’d cut his hair and it was starting to get a little too long. Malfoy had apparently gone the same route: his platinum hair were now down to his earlobes, ruffled by his odd sleeping position.

“So what if I was, Potter?”

Harry huffed a laugh, too tired to care. He still felt awful; his eyes were puffy and dry and he could feel a headache building between his temples. He really wanted to go back to sleep, but the thought of returning to his room, alone inside those four blank walls, had suddenly become unbearable.

“Scoot over.” He said, gently tapping on Malfoy’s leg.

He smiled as the Slytherin hastily made room for him, grumbling all the way through.

With a flick of his wrist Harry wandlessly summoned the book from the floor and traced the embossed title on the spine:

_Dear Christopher: a parable on love in time of war._

“Where do you get these?” he asked, his mind going back to Sirius own collection.

“I ordered them” Malfoy said, taking the tome from his hands and placing it back on the floor “Care to tell me what you think you’re doing?”

“Well, I was hoping to catch up on sleeping and this couch looked pretty comfortable.” He replied, shrugging his shoulders.

“So you just made yourself at home”

“Pretty much, yeah”

There was a plea in his voice, he knew, and he also knew that Malfoy saw right through it.

_Let me stay_ and _I don’t want to go back_ and _don’t let me have another nightmare alone._

He hated it; hated being this desperate and having to rely not only on his friends, but also his former nemesis, but his head was now thrumming with a dull ache and he really didn’t want to be left alone.

“I think I already told you how much of an insufferable Gryffindor you are, yeah?”

“Every day for the last eight years”

“And apparently it’s still not enough”

Harry felt himself laugh, a feeble sound escaping from dry lips.

There they were: two eighteen years old wizards on a couch, one in front of the other, feet almost touching. It was funny, really, how much of his time Harry had spent on hating on the same guy he now looked in marvel as he tried to disappear under his blanket, his body so thin and long it looked like it could snap at any time.

And then he remembered.

“I still have your wand” he whispered.

One of Malfoy’s eyes shone bright under the curtain of his hair, expression unreadable.

“Do you… do you want it?”

“I thought the Ministry had it”

Malfoy’s voice was small but calm, veering dangerously low on the word _Ministry._ Harry had no idea what his family had gone through after their trial if not for what the papers wrote: Lucius Malfoy was still in Azkaban, Narcissa was in house arrest and Draco had obtained special permission to come back to Hogwarts only on the condition of never leaving castle grounds. In Harry’ eyes, that’d been a fair if not light punishment for what they’d done, but something in Malfoy’s eyes told him a lot more had happened during that long summer.

“No” he said, feeling suddenly self-conscious “I asked if I could keep it and they let me. I don’t think anyone cared at that point”

“Merlin, you are so stupid” Malfoy said, sinking his face into his hands.

“Pardon?”

“It’s not that they didn’t care, it was that you were the one asking.” Came Maalfoy’s muffled voice, sounding positively defeated “Sometimes I ask myself if you really are this dense or if you just pretend”

“Oh, shut up!” Harry protested, not as offended as he would’ve expected. On the Draco Malfoy insult scale, that was a pretty mild one “Anyway, if you want it, I can give it to you tomorrow. It’s in my trunk”

“Why can’t you go retrieve it now?”

“I…” the reply was stuck in his throat. “I’m just tired.”

“What, were you thinking of sleeping _here_?” the Slytherin asked, looking at him with incredulous eyes. “First you take my spot at the lake, and now this? Sod off Potter, go back to your bed”

“Why? Do you snore?”

“Ha! As if”

“Then shut up and turn off the light.”

Malfoy muttered something that sounded like _bloody Potter_ then tugged on the lamp’s cord, plunging the room in total darkness. Harry had to fight the urge to immediately turn it on, just to make sure the boy in front of him was truly Draco Malfoy, the same hard-headed and stubborn wizard who had made enchanted pins just to spite him all throughout their fourth year. It was hard letting go of those memories, but he found out that there, in the dark, everything felt a little easier.

He could hear the Slytherin breath, slow and even, coming and going from his body and he let himself be lulled by its rhythm.

Harry knew it shouldn’t have made a difference. Just like he got nightmares alone in his room he would still get them on a couch with a restless Slytherin, but somehow the presence of another human next to him relaxed him.

He let his headache wash over him as he drifted to sleep, the cold pressure of skin against his very own.

.

.

.

When he woke up the sun had barely said its greeting over the mountains.

Malfoy had already left, his blanket still warm on Harry’s shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Draco is reading at the end refers back to Christopher Isherwood, incredible gay writer and one of my favorites. Highly suggest you give his books a read.  
> Also, hurray for soft Draco. You'll se a lot of him in the next chapters :)


	8. On long talks and Quidditch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I wanted to write this note at the beginning to let you know I'm changing the rating of this story, as you could see, to a more Mature one, so keep that in mind.  
> In this chapter I talk about grief and death following what happens in Deathly Hollows, but also about Harry awful past with the Dursleys, so please proceed with caution.  
> Hope you enjoy :)

_Door to the dungeons: likes to slam itself on passersby's faces._

_Toilet on the first floor: burst out as soon as one enters_ _the third stall._

_Ceiling on the first floor’s staff’s room: attracts everything made of wood._

And the list went on and on, detailing every odd thing they had found around the castle, all in Hermione’s neat handwriting. It was three feet long and going, with a note at the end where the witch had wrote down all the sightings reported by third parties: a Ravenclaw girl had felt the walls closing in on her when going down from the Astronomy Tower only for them to return back in their places minutes later, a first year Hufflepuff had recalled his encounter with a sentient lamp in the common room that had left him with a purple bump on his forehead, a sixth year Slytherin had begrudgingly admitted the broom closet near the Quidditch pitch had been hermetically closed for days a no one could enter.

“Don’t forget the portrait of the fruit basket” said Ron, sprawled on his bed.

They had retired to Ron’s and Dean’s bedroom, the common room currently occupied by a mob of students listening to the latest Quidditch match on the wireless. The walls were full of posters with seven familiar orange comets flying through them in circles: the Chudley Cannons, last in ranking for the fourth year in a row. Not that Harry could blame them: coming out from a year of war had had to be especially hard for a sport player.

“What about the fruit basket?” he asked, dangling his legs from the desk chair which he had taken possession of.

“It throws oranges at you. Or at least it tries, you know, being a painting and all”

“There was a maiden once” said Hermione “She was always eating the grapes. I wonder where she has gone”

She was not the only person missing from their painting: a knight had fled from slaying a watercolour dragon, two of the three witches that once hung from the dungeons’ walls were nowhere to be seen and one of the Fat Lady’s oldest friend, a woman with a passion for Firewhiskey, had taken residence in an acrylic landscape on the third floor and refused to come out.

“McGonagall has got her work cut out. It will take years to turn everything the way it was” said Ron, eerily looking at the parchment. “Hope she doesn’t expect us to do all of that”

“Of course not, Ron. Be sensible” said Hermione, but Harry could see she was doubtful. “She only needed some aid. I’m sure the other professors will help her”

It had been an odd, cold day. It had started snowing at an early hour and now the ground was barely visible through the thick white coat. It was peaceful, in a way: the sounds got quieter, the chit chats by the fire more frequent and lazier, even Crookshanks had made its squat muzzle visible from the pile of blanket it usually resided in.

Between classes and their mad search for the castle’s new oddities, Harry had completely forgotten to talk about Malfoy to his friends. Well, maybe forgotten was the wrong word, better say avoided. It wasn’t for the lack of trying: he had been on the verge of telling them multiple times that week, but every time something in his chest prevented him from doing it. It felt, again, like betrayal.

_You’re not even friends._ A voice told him _Why are you so afraid of telling them?_

Harry didn’t know. It wasn’t as though he was afraid of judgement, Merlin knew he’d had his fair share of rumours and lies spread about him throughout the years, but somehow he felt like he had to keep his conversations with Malfoy a secret, their words private.

If they met in the halls they’d exchange nods, nothing more, but some days Harry would wake up in the middle of the night and go downstairs to fetch some water and Malfoy would be there, ruffled hair and all, as if waiting for him. And they would talk, about nothing at all.

_“There’s this book I’m reading”_ or _“Have you tried this type of tea?”_ or _“Are you done with your Transfiguration homework? My lock of hair is still polka dotted”_. It was comforting, having someone who understood: the loneliness, the sense of urge towards their future, the not knowing. And yet they talked about the weather, about homework and pleasant things as if the war had been just a long lost fairy-tale.

They never discussed why Malfoy never seemed to sleep in his room, or better, to sleep at all.

_A question for another day._

And another. And another. And soon it was Christmas.

.

.

.

The Great Hall was decked in reds and greens, with gold light sparkling through the tree branches. To make up for the castle’s still visible wounds the professors had gone all out: all the classes and rooms were fully decorated with sparkling festoons, garlands and tiny bells that sang carols when flicked. Younger students went on treasure hunts for mistletoes, waiting for their special someone under door frames and arches, while older wizards and witches relaxed in the comfort of their common room with steaming mugs of hot chocolate and spicy infusions.

All that jolly atmosphere had seemed to make Ron ecstatic.

“It’s almost like our first year” he would say every time they entered a classroom and saw the decorations. And indeed, it felt like they were eleven all over again: they played wizarding chess in their free evenings, making up excuses with Hermione to not do their homework and then shamelessly copy from hers; they drank tea and poured gravy on all their meals and stuffed their faces with pudding, groaning their way back to the cottage with their bellies full. Not a care in the world, if not for Ron’s Auror training and Harry’s DADA readings. No immortality stone in the castle’s chambers, no Inquisitor trying to burn another scar into his hand.

Letters from Andromeda came, telling him she’d found more of Sirius’ stuff and that she would like for him to go through them together. He’d replied he would go visit them before Christmas, so they could then go to the Burrow together with Teddy, directly to the party.

_There are more books, Circe knows how that man acquired so many muggle novels, and more clothes. I think there’s a pair of boots you’d like and another one of his motor jackets. That ought to be a little big for you, but we can fix that._

_There are also some letters addressed to you and your parents, I think I’ll let you read them alone._

_As for all the remaining Black’s heirlooms, I’ve already contacted the Ministry to send us some Aurors to test them, I trust nothing coming from my mother’s house. There was once a flower pot that bit all non-Purebloods, up to the bone, right in the entrance. Hated the thing, I’m glad someone broke it._

He had put all Andromeda’s letters in a drawer of his desk, neatly stacked in chronological order. Some night, when he didn’t feel like going downstairs, he would read them aloud: about Teddy slurring his first words, about Andromeda’s disastrous attempts at cooking, about the snippets of Sirius’ past filtering though her words. About the Marauders, none remaining.

Their map had stopped working the day Lupin had died. He had tried multiple times to animate it again, even employing Hermione’s help, but nothing had worked. Now when someone recited:

_“I solemnly swear that I’m up to no good”_

The map replied back:

_“Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs thank you for your service. It has been an honour creating mischief with you”_

The first time he’d seen the message, he’d felt the trickle of tears down his cheeks, hit with the sudden realization that, while Voldemort had been thoroughly defeated, he’d managed to wipe out an entire generation of wizards. His parents, his godfather, the only other adult he felt like was family.

Nothing remained, nothing but a stack of books and a pair of dragon hide boots.

“So we were thinking…”

Ron’s voice suddenly snapped him back from his reverie. They were in the Great Hall, having a generous lunch before Transfiguration, Harry, and outdoor practise, Ron, and the table was bustling with chatters. Beside them, Hermione was in deep conversation with another girl about their Arythmancy homework, while on the other side of the table Harry could clearly hear Theodore Nott and Pansy Perkins arguing about the latest broomstick fashion.

“Define we” Harry sputtered, trying not to choke on his potatoes.

“Me and Dean. We’d like to have a little Quidditch match, you know, something casual. Since we’re banned from the real tournament” he said, his eyes saddening for just a moment “It’ll be good practice, you haven’t chased after a snitch in a long time”

“Have you asked for permission?” came Hermione’s stern voice, pausing her previous conversation to place her unwavering gaze on Ron.

“I’ll have you know” he retorted indignantly “That not only I have asked for permission, but I have a written note from Madam Hooch giving us the all clear”

At that, Hermione looked impressed, giving her boyfriend a pat on the cheek and then turning back to her friend. It was almost scary how things had changed, but actually not at all.

“What do you say mate, are you in?”

Harry didn’t even have to think about it.

“Sure”

They’d have a little practise the next day and a game on Sunday, since there were no other matches scheduled. The news spread fast and wide and a lot of students asked to get in the team, mostly second and third years with star struck eyes who hoped to play with the Chosen One, but Ron quickly shut them down.

“Sorry guys, eighth years only”

No Slytherin joined the game. Not that Harry had expected them to, but somehow playing Quidditch knowing there was no other team in green and silver to beat felt almost wrong.

.

.

.

Harry found out he no longer fit his Quidditch uniform.

It was the night before the match and he’d gone back to the cottage right after dinner, hoping and praying to get at least three or four hours of uninterrupted sleep. Feeling the excitement for the day ahead, he had thought of trying out his old uniform, but he soon found out it was almost ripping at the seams.

He casted a light Engorgio spell to make it fit, but it only made it hung weirdly over his shoulders. The thought however had struck him speechless.

_Why?_

Had he gained weight? It didn’t seem like it, but his outfits had always been a little on the baggier side, remnants of his time spent with the Dursleys. His flying clothes were the only ones he’d bought to fit him properly, snug on his skin, two years prior.

He knew for certain he hadn’t grown taller, still a full head short of Ron, but larger?

He stripped to his pyjamas and went to bed, cocooning himself with the soft covers.

_Why?_

The question wouldn’t leave him, until he forcefully closed his eyes and began counting. He fell asleep at around fifty-three, succumbing to yet another one of his dreams: he was back at King's Cross station, nothing but blinding white in every direction, only this time he was alone. There was no Dumbledore to welcome him to the afterlife, no other soul in sight, the silence almost deafening. He hadn’t paid attention to that particular detail the first time around, but then again, he had just died.

He sat on the white bench, pointedly not looking under his seat, and yet he knew it was there: Voldemort’s decaying form, hugging himself like that action could keep his bones and flesh tied together. He also knew that he had a choice to make, whether to live or die, but life felt so meaningless and distant now, a shadow of what once had been brilliant.

_Or has it ever been?_

My friends are waiting for me.

_They’ll go on without you._

Maybe. But I don’t want them to forget me.

_Forgetting is part of grieving. We leave the memories that are too painful in the back of our heads, to rot and grow funguses until they inevitably come forward to plant their spores in our skulls._

That sounds awful.

_It is, that’s why you’ll never forget. You can’t. You’ll carry the memories of those who died until you’ll join them. Bring them flowers, say their names. Never let them be left behind._

I won’t.

_Good. Now look under the bench._

He woke up.

.

.

.

“I trust you’ve had an awful night?”

Malfoy was, as always, in his favourite armchair, feet dangling for the armrest, book open in half on his chest. Harry could make out the faint outline of “The colour Purple” embossed on the spine.

“Particularly so, yes”

Harry knocked on the wall and asked for “A mug of hot chamomile, please”, then sat back on a chair across from the other wizard, letting himself be hypnotized by the dance of the fireplace.

After a long stretch of silence, he heard Malfoy sigh, closing his book to look at him. His eyes were pools of steel, his blond lashes like flakes of snow on their surfaces.

“You have a mouth”

Harry raised a puzzled eyebrow.

“I was… aware of that?”

“That use it, you git. Speak. Tell me about your nightmares”

“I don’t think-”

“Can’t be worse than mine”

Harry recognized that sentence for what it was: an offer. Malfoy hadn’t made many since they’d started their unlikely friendship (could he call it that?) and he was not letting this opening close on itself.

“Do tell. We can compare notes” he said, feigning a light-heartedness he didn’t feel.

He took a sip from his chamomile, waiting for Malfoy to speak, but burned his tongue in the process; it was still far too hot. As he was taking shallow breaths in to soothe his burn, the Slytherin opened his mouth:

“I’ll tell you, but an eye for an eye: then you’ll have to do the same”

“Okay”

Malfoy took a deep breath in.

“I always go back to the same four or five days. Either that night or the time I spent at the Manor. I was locked in my room while Nagini was patrolling the halls. He would sometimes leave dead mice or bats on our doors, like little presents, but this one time, he brought a man”

Harry felt his heart stop.

“Dead?”

“Yeah. A Squid they had found in the streets. Tortured him to the point of insanity then left to Nagini for lunch, except it thought it was better to leave the carcass at my door. A reminder, I suppose, that I too could end up like that if my undying loyalty to the Dark Lord was put to a test.

In the dream I hear its sound, slithering on the wooden floor and leaving a trace of blood everywhere it went, and I’m sure I’m next so I try to run but the windows and doors are blocked”

_You feel suffocated. Trapped. Helpless._

“I usually wake up at this point”

Malfoy’s voice had been steady and clear when recalling that particular memory, almost like they were having one of their usual talks, but Harry could see the hollowness in his eyes, like a veil of fog.

“Your turn, Potter”

The familiarity with which he said his surname almost made him laugh. They really had been just kids a couple days before, where had time gone?

“I… it’s hard to explain. There are many things that aren’t public knowledge”

“Like the fact that you have abnormally large feet? Don’t fret about it, it was in today’s Prophet”

“No- wait, what? What’s wrong with my feet?”

But then Malfoy smiled, the left corner crooked just a little more than the right one, and Harry knew he’d been played. An attempt to lighten the mood, albeit a shallow one, but nevertheless. He would’ve never expected Malfoy to make the effort.

“Start at the beginning” the wizard said, weaving a careless hand through his hair. “Stories usually open like that”

“Okay, well. I’m not sure how much you know but there was a prophecy about me” Harry said, his voice growing quiet. He had no idea why he was trusting Malfoy of all people with this information, but once he started he was unable to stop “Either me or Voldemort had to die, no other solution. You see, he’d had accidentally bonded a piece of his soul to mine, the last thread keeping him alive, but he didn’t know.”

“What?”

“So I went to him, in the Forbidden Forest, and we duelled and I died. I really did. I woke up to this version of King’s Cross station but clean and devoid of colour and Dumbledore was with me”

“What?”

“I came back, eventually. But tonight, I dreamt I was back there and I knew Voldemort’s piece of soul was under my bench but I couldn’t bear to look and everything felt so distant and unreal and-“

“What?”

The third time, Harry looked up from his mug. Malfoy was looking at him like he’d never did before: with bewilderment, with shock, with sadness.

“You died”

“Yes”

“You really, actually died”

“Yes”

“And you came back”

“Yes”

They looked at each other for a long moment, then Malfoy’s mouth twisted into a funny shape.

“Merlin’s tits. That is the most single Gryffindor thing I have ever heard.” He sounded incredulous, but also thoroughly amused “You came back from the dead, defeated the Dark Lord _and_ brought peace and justice to this land?”

“Well, the last part I don’t think-”

“Shut up, Merlin, shut up”

Malfoy leapt from his seat and stood, blanket falling to his feet, took two steps forward and cupped Harry’s face into his hands, squishing them as if he was making sure Harry was a real living and breathing thing.

“You are insufferable, you know?”

“Yeah, you tell me all the time” Harry mumbled, trying not to laugh at Malfoy’s exasperated expression.

“Tonight especially so”

Malfoy’s hands were cool, his long fingers going from squashing his cheeks to simply tracing the skin below his eyes. It was a soothing motion, almost like a touch of a mother or a friend. A consolatory gesture for the son who got second place at a Quidditch tournament or got a Poor on his test.

“You died” Malfoy repeated, his voice so thin it was barely audible.

“I did” Harry replied, just as softly “But I came back”

“Small mercies”

Malfoy eyes were clouded with something Harry didn’t recognize, but before he could get a chance to really take a look at him, the Slytherin sat back down, assuming his previous comfortable position.

“So this was your nightmare? I think I got you ten to one, mister Potter”

“Well, I-”

But he was interrupted by the sound of his stomach. He’d taken the habit of eating a small midnight snack, just to get back to sleep after a rough night, but this time he’d forgotten. Which reminded him…

“I can’t fit in my old Quidditch uniform anymore”

He had no idea why he’d said that, to Malfoy of all people, but the Slytherin only scoffed.

“Of course you don’t fit. You got that done before the war”

“But I haven’t grown since then”

“Yes, Potter, I am aware I am most excellently taller than you, thank you for the reminder, but I think you have to agree with me if I say this is the first time you don’t look malnourished after the summer”

“I… what? I wasn’t…”

But as soon as he spoke the words, he knew they weren't true.

The Dursleys had always given him just enough food to survive, certainly not enough to properly grow or be active all day. Suddenly, a long-lost memory hit him: a dinner with his uncle and aunt, the tv screaming in the background about the stock market and superstore deals. His plate was almost empty, two slices of bread and one of cheese, and he was trying not to show how slowly he was chewing because he wanted to make it last.

“My cousin” he said.

“Your cousin” Malfoy repeated, clearly not following his train of thought.

“I remember this one time aunt Petunia had cooked steamed green beans for the first time and my cousin Dudley hated them, so he dumped them on my plate”

“How rude”

“No” Harry said, and the words that came after fought to be spoken “I was happy because I was hungry. I was so, unbearably hungry, to the point of not being able to think. He gave me his beans thinking I would hate them too but I devoured them. Gulped them down without even tasting them.”

He had never thought about that. He’d drowned those memories in the joys of the Burrow where there was always someone cooking and enjoying the food, where his friends waited for him to start breakfast and where he could steal a pastry from the oven if he wanted.

_We leave the memories that are too painful in the back of our heads, to rot and grow funguses until they inevitably come forward to plant their spores in our skulls._

And now he was finally back in full health. Better, he had muscles, from all those times Ron had begged him to exercise with him so that George wouldn’t make fun of him. If he flexed his arms, he could see the rounded shape of his bicep sloping forward like the Scottish hills.

He didn’t even realize he was crying until a soft hand pressed was pressed to his nape making him fall forward, soaking up the tears on the fabric of Malfoy’s pyjama.

“If you leave snot on my shirt I’ll hex you into tomorrow, understood?”

The hug lasted only a moment, like any of Malfoy’s moods, and then they were back to their respected chairs, not really sure what to do but too tired to go back to their rooms.

They fell asleep like that, Malfoy’s book on the floor right next to Harry’s empty mug, but when the sun shone through the curtains of the cottage, waking the Gryffindor, Malfoy had magically vanished…

.

.

.

In the end he’d had to ask the school for a new uniform.

“Why haven’t you bought a new one?” Hermione had asked.

“I didn’t think I would need it”

The match went great. He’d never really understood how much he’d missed the sport: the blood pumping in his vein, so high up over the field that the air was thinner and cold, on the lookout for a minuscule golden dot.

Below him Ron was shouting instructions to his teammates like he’d been born to do that all along. The quaffle flying back and forth, in and out the rings, the cheering from the bleachers, the colors of blue and gold and green mixing together like the corners of a pinwheel...

He had missed it.

“And the quaffle goes back to Thomas who tries to- oh no, Johnson intercepted and is now trying an evasive move towards the goal, but here comes Williams angling the bludger towards her and oh, that twirl, she missed it by less than an inch! And now the quaffle is passed to Davies who…”

He’d never paid much attention to the details: the voice of his teammates, the narration of the commentator, the dull thud of the bludger hit by a bat… less than a year and he would have to say goodbye to all of it.

He descended from his high up position, taking a few laps of the pitch just to commit that vision to memory. They were happy, shouting and screaming at each other, feeling the good kind of adrenaline rush that brought out the euphoria in them.

He saw the snitch when they were eighty-fifty for his team. He immediately gave chase, reaching out with his hand and capturing it right at the last moment he had to curve and not hit the wooden structure under the bleachers.

When he descended he found himself enveloped in the tight embrace of his teammates, but not only them: everybody who had played was celebrating together, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuff and Gryffidors sharing that wide smile that meant only one thing: we are truly free.

The missing eighth year Slytherins joined them for the afterparty back at the cottage. It turned out they had watched the whole match in the comfort of their heated seats.

“Not a bad game” said Theodore Nott, uncharacteristically seated in front of Harry. “But I’ve seen better”

Harry nodded, an uncertain smile on his lips. He knew almost nothing about the guy, only that he was quiet and reserved, and Harry was almost grateful when Pansy demanded to take his seat because it was:

“…closer to the bloody Butterbeer pitch, scoot over”

That gratefulness however immediately disappeared when she looked up and smirked at him, a sly expression on her face.

“So, Potter, how’s Potion going? Never asked me to be your partner again, did you?”

In the span of a week it had rang loud and clear how much Pansy didn’t care for the subject. It wasn’t that she lacked the talent, Harry knew she had always gotten good marks the years before, but she really couldn’t care less. Her last partners had all gotten sent to the infirmary with either an enourmously enlarged nose or half their hair burned off.

“Uhm…”

“Don’t try to deny it, I don’t blame you. Can’t stand the subject” she said, pouring herself a generous glass of Butterbeer.

“I thought you didn’t mind it” said Nott, who didn’t seem to really be interested in a reply. He was just there, deep eyes and all, to observe.

“Yeah, that was before I got forced to do it. Did you ever see me put Potion in my curriculum? No, my mother asked the headmistress to change it, that wench”

“The privilege of having no parents” Tehodore replied, tipping back the clear liquid in his glass. Harry was pretty sure that was not Butterbeer.

He had discovered through the papers that Nott’s father hadn’t had the same luck as Lucius Malfoy: he’d been life sentenced to Azkaban, leaving his son alone in their mansion right outside London. And yet, Theodore Nott was the picture of calmness.

“And you?”

Pansy was again looking at him, eyebrows knitted in a strange expression.

“Me… what?”

“What are _your_ plans for the future, Boy Wonder? Are you going to join the Ministry and fight the big bad guys once again?” she said in a mocking tone.

Harry knew she meant no real harm, but that was the question he always dreaded the most.

“No idea, really”

“Oh, come on! The saviour of the magical world, the only person who could literally go and do anything without even finishing their education has no idea what to do?” she roared, making Harry flinch. Fortunately the room was filled with loud enough chatter to drown her words “I’m stuck in that stupid Potion class and you, you…”

“Leave it Pans. Save the speech for when you’re actually drunk”

Recognizing the voice, Harry turned: Malfoy stood behind him, his hair styled in loose braids and neatly tucked behind his ears, wearing a warm woollen jumper and fit brown trousers. He looked… good. Well rested, almost.

It was the first time since the start of term Harry had seen him without red marks under his eyes.

“Thank you” he murmured.

Malfoy nodded, giving him an amused look, then disappeared upstairs. Harry followed him with his eyes until the bottom of his socks vanished from the last visible step.

“What’s the deal with you two?”

Now it was Harry’s turn to look at Pansy.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just weird” she said, letting her head rest on her hand “I thought you’d be at each other throats the moment you came back. Hell, I thought you’d be at our throats too”

Harry squirmed in his seat, not really sure what to say. He searched for his friends in the crowd of the common room, but found them talking in a corner, their faces alight with happiness and close, so close. He couldn’t bear to ruin their moment.

“People change.” He simply said “I did too. Moving forward means to pardon, I think. Forgetting what happened or who helped me, that I could never, but I don’t think lashing out at you or Malfoy when you were just kids is the best answer”

That was the mature response, the one he had rehearsed throughout all that summer and had given to all journalists when asked. The true one had been left unsaid, too raw and painful to conjure out loud.

_In truth, I left all hate behind that night, in the Forbidden Forest. It didn’t matter anymore; I didn’t care that Draco Malfoy had tried to poison my best friend or that he almost killed another, I didn’t care that you, Pansy Parkinson, almost sold me to the Dark Lord, and I didn’t care about death anymore._

_Pain was all that was left._

_And it’s selfish to admit, but in that moment I had truly lost everything: my family, my friends, myself. All in the name of a prophecy and a man so stupid to believe it._

_So no, I don’t hate you. I don’t have it in me to do so anymore. And I’ll never get it back._

Those were the words he wanted to say, but couldn’t. He’d never told his friends and would never do; some things, he had learnt, were better kept secret. ANd even if he did, the only person who could understand was not with them anymore.


End file.
